I wish you could see the hummingbird,
oscillating wings invisible
against the red glass feeder.
Hanging suspended, parallel,
a needle puncture takes a sip.
They really do hum--
the playing card clipped to a bike spoke,
folded paper threaded through a fan,
a garden windmill spinning on the breeze.
Finished, he sews a zigzag stitch,
looping up to stab himself
into a cotton-cloth sky.