Tiny Birds

Beaks buried in nectar,
Bodies buddhas,
Wings blur.

We study throats,
Rusty bellies
In books, windows.

My grandmother’s words
Were once full
Of hummingbirds.

Last night, every time
We kissed, one
Burned inside my dark mind.

When the feeder tips,
The tiny bird
Moves with it.


One Response to “Tiny Birds”

  1. eduardo says:

    It’s going…it’s going…and it is gone! Outta the park! (sounds like the muses heard your beseechings)
    Love love love the metaphoric imagery of this one. Love love love it.

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