There’s the belly of a country—took me in as outlier,
bartered for my edges, called me a little ways to go.
Led me to Morocco, a marketplace where I give
everything over for cut glass, cheap crystal. Overtly
to inhabit lands, hold you novel. Imagine a redstart,
a mosque, mouth their names. Want to be a local.
The stars in ancient sky say what’s venerable.
I plant the coastline with a cedar dream, a one day
raft. How again my voice is snake charmed and housed
on labyrinth streets. Your palm, seed to large for
any animal to carry off. Exhausted of smells, spices
rising, come hustled in the stalls. You clip the orchids,
sharpen roses, mirage the limit of export.