Slip of
bird
with fan
of furious
wings in
blossom’s
throat I hear
your wing
-beat sing.
To nectar
you need
no key,
mid-rib
of leaf or
sip from
little red
vials
constantly
defiled;
starvation
staved
for one
more day.
Butterfly
weed, too,
bids your
wing
-whistle
come:
sing me,
guard me,
lap me
with your
split
tongue.
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