What You Need

You arrive at the Grand Canal
with a mouth full of sounds
learned for music and food,
glissando, crescendo, fettuccini.

Per favore—or if it pleases you—
per piaccere.
Syllables roll fat as olives
lolling on a plate.

Carefully, you tuck each question
under your tongue—how, who, when
and where, which looks like a dove.
Per favore, dove est?

You count pigeons, you count the days
away and the time you have left.
Per piaccere, quanto?

You leave the words here,
fly back where you came from
and write in your own language
while echoes of these notes
play softly—piano—inside.