- The hummingbird flits from blossoms
- of jasmine—doesn’t
- everything in the shape of its wing, the quick
- against thin air, quietly hovering,
- silently sipping invisible nectars,
- ready to escape in three dimensions.
- In the shape of its wing is an exactness to
- the demands of a floral subsistence drawn out
- to the finest—and fiercest—proposition.
- The green sheen of its dark feathers
- is in not pigment, but structure—
- exceeding the fineness of light to play
- untrammelled among its protein caves and
- It flits like light among jasmine,
- caught in the color and scent of starry
- But I stand in my smelly socks
- and press my oily nose against the window.
- In this big wooden house, I confound
- even my crude mammalian nature,
- sacrificing principle to convenience,
- self-redeaming only in absence of distraction,
- at this impossible-to-fly novelty
- that lives on nothing but distillation of color.
- I don’t pretend I’m better than
- not more noble—not better suited—not
- No careful geometry or random fractal can approximate
- the utter fitness of color, form, weight, wit,
- strength, gentleness, balance, beauty,
- readiness, and quickness of this little
- Nothing more true on pain of life.