Was it you, presenting in the evening bougainvillea as a hummingbird again,
you voluptuary, dual febrile wings ashine as a seamstress’s spool,
hovering over the brachts with power tools to fix a beam or caulk the cracks?
Was it you that soldered one emerald frog to its oleaginous polder
and a Polyphemus moth flattened like peanut-buttered toast points on the footpath?
That espaliered to Orion —bending backwards— one night heron?