ARS POETICA AS BIRDFEEDER AND HUMMINGBIRD

All winter I watched the empty feeder and the God light pummel its stained glass in a sieve. No hummingbirds, no humorous little body with a tent stake as a nose. Look, little bird, how do you know, how do you know your brilliance is what I seek? The way you lance a honeysuckle's heart, take the blood in your bill. I wish I knew how to punch a center, inch in and in, lance something to death, that flowers and flowers light. You in your array of vibrating attire. I am not a weed, I need your praise to survive. The field will consume me. The field has chosen sides. The field is not hungry for the middling. How I hate the field and what it sees, its teeth digging out the ochre of mediocre, what's left but medi--a non, a nothing, no-one. O tiny bird--medicate me, convulse me, punch holes in me so some of my light leaks out.