Ripe dandelions float
on the circuitry of stems
that a moon has pinpricked
with water.

Maps under roof don't point
where their seeds let go
of the green light.

Duration may plant them like notes
in a ship's slab of melting land.

Copper skies may rub them off time
starve highways of hammered clouds
and let them slip through a core
of silken metal,

where echoes find worlds like home
for the curve of bio.