When you find me in the courtyard
of a Roman home, bring seven legumes,
a turbine, the cross-section
of a stone fruit, and a white fennec.
Strike the soundboard and the dance
is an olive grove pitted with light.
Cross the hangar and the index
for zeppelin parts could diagram
pork cuts: patchwork viewed
from 35,000 feet up. In the chapter
on chemistry, we siphon potions
in milligrams. On p. 537, the bait-
casting reel resembles a music-box.
Names for the kingdom, monorails,
arthropods—the ocean spits buccino
for good luck. We kiss in thickets
of serifs. Have I mentioned that I love
your eye, and its anterior chamber?
At moonrise, tikis light generals
on plinths. We brace for cartoon
weather toasting guava juice coolers.
Tugboats dock in housewares.
We aim for greener cordilleras,
the republic gunning our backs.