Eat the Hummingbird #10
The ego that rides
the just-felt spasms of heat
from the sun’s last light
once the roof’s edge becomes the limit
of our vantage point. We will invent
whole other worlds
with a thousand different suns,
we will name every one of those suns
before we yield believing
that the smallest part of nature
won’t bend to the enthusiasm
we hold for ourselves.
Each moment without pain convinces us
that the pain is gone forever.
How punishing it is
to live longer than the end of each day.
Eat the Hummingbird #11
the moths, the lack of interest
they have in our bodies
when they are not encased in cloth
is the same that the ice holds
for the wings of the living.
There are parts of us
that cannot clump together
on the floor
or in the back of a closet.
Those parts are always rotating
in the windows
for the passersby
& the insects that find us then
know how little we think
of their brief landings.
The ice that stays too long
on the walk
does its best to reflect the gradient
of our nude efforts,
but none of that picture
stays close to art for very long.