vertical mylar hummingbirds, stretched on spindles of momentum
spinning in the middles of streets & yards, close to the ground,
or hovering too high for me to tell
like raindrops that hover & spin

the tension

but gravity still pulls me and everything
only this anomalous miracle
with no one else to check my vision with

as if a tiny silver hummingbird spinning within my centers center
like a gyroscope in open space
having only the spin it goes toward
unless the memory of mono-gravity, of upright in what direction

spin becoming heat,
the darkness at the center of every fire, the illuminated ocean
at the center of every sundering maelstrom
at the bottoms of throats, of eyes embracing a swift painful death,
the jumbled accretion when the doctor gives a time limit
and demands to warp all the days in between
like ive already hung my skin in on the wall to dry
& am waiting at the bus station for 6 or more months

like waiting to be born

rather wait inside the spinning mirrored spindle, like garlic about to open
brimming with hydraulic devas, scrubbing angels
leaf-wings forming a floppy cone i sew onto my newly shaved scalp--
a cornucopia of evolving greens waiting for remembered acts & hallucinations
to fume through my skull & dive up into the free pool-orb

as my whole neighborhood opens like a cactus flower
after its onece-a-year ecstasy of rain
when the desert radios are thick with symphonic color

as if spring could be stored in a jar or freezer
as if winters not the time to make love naked on a mountaintop
light so cold the bones snap out to a waiting exoskeleton
the rest of our selves can spin inside like rapid turbines
putting life energy back into the river, rebuilding the shreds of fish and forest
as the river swells with transmutational aromas, surging tsunamic upstream
to wake the mountains from eons of celibacy, to flood the valleys
into mythically level playing fields, and i did say playing
as plants are such enthusiastic audiences
if you give them art they will show up in droves, in voluntary silos,
orchards as complexly patterned as celtic knots, celtic yeses

as my hand becomes the weave of your shirt,
as your hair is an eroded flood plain of wild grasses
undulating with our planet deep breaths
as they echo through our turbulent unskeining