Ars Poetica as Birdfeeder and Hummingbird
All winter I watched the empty feeder
and the God light pummel
its stained glass in a sieve. No
humorous little body with a tent stake
as a nose.
Look, little bird, how do you know, how
do you know
your brilliance is what I seek? The way
you lance a honeysuckle's
heart, take the blood in your bill. I wish
I knew how to punch
a center, inch in and in, lance something
to death, that flowers and
flowers light. You in your array of vibrating
attire. I am not
a weed, I need your praise to survive.
The field will consume me.
The field has chosen sides. The field is
not hungry for the middling.
How I hate the field and what it sees, its
teeth digging out the ochre
of mediocre, what's left but medi-a non,
a nothing, no-one.
O tiny bird- medicate me, convulse me,
punch holes in me so
some of my light leaks out.
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