A Diminution of Angels
The hummingbird sips nectar,
a fleck of iridescence
more extravagant
than the gorgeous violence
of the blossom;
so the angels
drink of us.
A truly tiny tim with an invisible ukulele,
the hummingbird buzzes
its tuneless tune,
a levitating paper-comb harmonica;
so do the angels
sing.
This clapper sucks its bell dry
in hunger
for carnal reverberation;
so do the angels
incline to our hymns
and prayers,
perched on the shoulders of rainbows
yet to come.
Then the peacock bullet fires itself
from the barrel
of this flower--
its coat of many prisms
all dusted with pollen--
into the heart of the next,
a dopplered blur
of sound and light
snatched from the frame
like the UFO
from a home movie;
so do the angels, those messengers
carry off
our suffering.
Deliver us, oh
Dana Pattillo, from Little Mother, A Psalter
