A HUMMINGBIRD
Under your skin there is a hummingbird
that moves where my hand moves.
Poor, rash bird, sure my hand is
its mate, it rushes, it beats
its wings under your skin
where the hummingbird causes flushes
of your blood to dash wildly
like long eared puppy hounds mad after
a butterfly who is himself
drunk with the taste of green.

The hummingbird thrums hotly,
turns the places of its flight
to red roses on your clear water of skin,
until you, even you, who have measured
the desires of stars and
the incredible geometry of passion
in the panther paw of night,
grow oddly resilient, pliant and calm
like you
are trying to be the hummingbird.

TURTLE EGGS
What is this constant put down of instinct
when we don’t even know what it is?
The little turtles escape the vulture
hovering over their family of eggs.
The wrinkly, new gang, all one, say, let’s go.
An army of bright armored crabs attacks.
But the weak shelled ones have strength in numbers,
heading all, somehow, straight for the dark sea.
It’s the rocks, the pools, the giant lizards
that create character, virtue and sin.
Air raids of birds fall down to snatch the slow,
but them minute old turtles keep racing
to get to the mysterious water
and it’s one in a hundred that keeps them going.

BLUE LINES OF SMOKE
             for Sean Rex Thompson  1963-1986
Blue lines of smoke decorate my house,
shelves for the occasion of my brother.
Reckless as a clever symphony
designed by the clash of wind and sun
he dances immobile, dazzling,
on this fixture of frail smoke.
Waves of white light pour into my house,
furniture, really, for the resting of my brother
who sits like electricity,
pining for the shock of union,
his arms slung across sunbeams,
disheveled like the perfume of flowers,
his hair like the sea at night,
glowing at the edges, promising.