dead & living hummingbirds as if the cure were repetition, i beat my wings with ghosts. drink the flower dry & move on to find another face. wore my chest as red as light would let me. refractions of teal sent like messengers from another galaxy's moon. how close are you breaking? i find edges in every single seam. is this where i will miss a beat? where i will plummet or where a photograph will leave me without any oars. the boats are made with holes. the feeder is held like a lantern by a man who owns an oil rig. there is nothing left untethered but us. no ground at all. the dead hummingbirds tell me i am closer & closer. i ask "to what?" to which they respond with laughter. orbs of glass drop from my beak. i am not in the business of deciding who is & isn't a hummingbird but if you feel fine you might not be a hummingbird. we have that need to tread air. i woke up with such a desire for sweetness. all the emptiness. ghosts swallowing their old sounds. how to turn a name inside out. i stand in the garden we always asked for trying to decide from who i will get my seance today. everyone has their nectar.