Hummingbird

Never certain

whether I’m the

hummingbird

or the hunger,

the burrowing

or the blossom.

This alchemist’s breath.

This living graphic.

This vibrating text.

A spurt. A spark. A lure.

A flag

for a fancy

country.

In Europe

they ended up

in glass boxes.

The head

like a bishop’s ring.

Fractal. Flint.

Metallic flicking.

The tiny

meteor of the heart

bursts.

Sin-splashed,

it sparkles.

It glistens

like sex.

A transvestite’s

rainbow brain.

Technically

a jewel.

In the 19th century

millions

were murdered

so they could

be hats.

A sapphire soul.

A magician’s

last breath.

Thought

hovering

outside

the body.

Lucifer.

Ruby bliss.

Light

about to be

swallowed.

Wings blinking.

An inch of bridge

between

spectacle and id.

Eventually

you become

what you desire.

A piece

of ecclesiastical

sparkle.

A splash of purple

in an iridescent dive.

A liquid medal

for a biplane pilot.

A flying piece of sugar

for a fallen acrobat.

All mouth:

a semaphore of hunger

tapped out with the tongue.

Everything is

ready to be devoured.

A tiny aurora borealis

before a swollen blossom.

This courtship

between tongue

and nectar.

A gemologist

of indulgence.

The dipping into petals—

soft inner spaces.

Succulent

nectar cup.

The hummingbird

hypnotizes

the flower.