& when I dropped my hummingbird

he cracked & lost his head.

From Abha to asphalt

my wonder fell 

quick

no cry

only Shruggy, offended,

wriggling out my right eye’s mud

sweeping every shard & crumb

& then himself

under Kreation’s green turf.

All those years

when asked for food

I gave stories of food & those who give it.

I pulled children off trees & ordered them still

& advertised our hidden words.

I turned to those trees

met their blistery eyes

where branches were cut 

& sap seeped.

My songs built windows

in my own eyes

nailed my sides to scrapwood

gave my Dragon Tales scale

some place to stay.

800 years to go

a hummingbird swapped for a pinecone

the children knew 

their teacher wouldn't make it.

Still, I buried them weekly in rose gardens.

They playscreamed & cackled &

by graduation our faiths evened out

stunted, shrunken

none of us tall enough

to ride that Ride.

Yes, my hummingbird

made martyrdom trendy.

Flames of fire/rivers of life

firing squads

& even here it’s argued–

does grass deserve to grow

if it won’t rise through 

storm & stone & foot?

It’s no wonder

grass blades live as swords

if given the chance.

I'd like to block all straight paths

with picket signs & megaphones

& scream: A circle is made 

of an infinite amount 

of straight paths. 

This is a circle! 

This is a circle! 

Wander off 

before it’s too late! & at night 

blow dandelion seeds 

through cemetery gates

to find whose souls my hummingbird favors.

Will it be Jackson? Livingston? Townsend? Bassel?

No. 

Dandelions still grow

& my bird-smashing rampage 

would be like any other.

Dandelions still grow.

Even a sneeze could set them off.

O hummingbird!

While you are absent 

I’ll borrow your job

swap thy days for my days

plant dandelions by every grave

& confuse the authorities.

As for the living

it won’t be heaven’s walking tombs

but instead eyes & expiration dates.

I’ll take the name of every bird

goading the lovers to 

pinion their prophets.