With an Apology - May 21, 2026

the ear-splitting screams

of a mockingbird trigger

an old dream of holding

a hummingbird in my hand

popcorn light, its husk of

feathers, hollow of life, toes

curled around the last twig,

still held in their grasp

I turn the bird over, egg white

eyes, throat a purple fantasy,

the iridescence dances

in the twist of light  .  .  .

nearly crashing into another

walker, I snap out of my

trance      I’m so sorry

oven like, the sun reminds me

to keep moving and pay attention,

though I can’t help wondering

how all demise feels the same,

and the puzzle of death

travels unsolved

among the ruins of memory