I station them, palm-sized and dusk-gold,
in high places.

In greetings, the clicks and whirrs of the office
rise like visible breath.

Can you set us down, here— here,
and here—

Freshly lacquered from the forests of the valley they come
sculpted to precision.

Perfection rings all kinds of bells, most of all
the ceiling kind.

Here’s a mother carrying a pot. A singing dhol,
a duck. All themselves on a terrifying scale.

Would you let us sleep?

There are seconds you gather them and years you place them.

This is why when a pinecone falls directly in the woods
I must have it.
Or a pebble enviably aimlessly rubbed down in the stream.

Upon close examination, the figures were whetted with the love
of commerce.

Put us down just here and thank you for a lovely meal.

How they abet me! I could cook forever.