The hummingbird—her
Bright lance is a straw,
Slight as living lace,
Made of drunken light.
Her eggs are pearls,
Pulsing M&Ms,
Morning’s eyelids,
Feathers in the seed,
Facets of the sun—
Or white scraps that tried.
How many have tried!
Slight as living lace,
She would fight a cat—
And win. Loyalty,
“The highest political virtue”—
My hair is true!—
God is the spider,
Loyalty the web
That sticks us to the dead:
These juiceless forms,
Dry and pixel flat,
That loved us once—
No honor greater,
No more violent joy
Than fighting for the dead.
Let mostly drift, atoms,
“Living in the moment,”
Free and well unstuck
To anyone together,
To past or future either—
Refuted by a feather.
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