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Marco, don't ask me why I don't write about hummingbirds
don't jut your chin out at me

I'm thinking

Lily Was Ten When She Died In Iowa

Lily lies under heavy skies and breathes and sighs
as cold machines and other beings and steely things

Make up her home while she's overthrown by a disease unknown
to wise men and white women and she thinks again

Of her birth year and her mothers fear and how she couldn't hear
her body dieing fast and without a past it will only last

Between nineteen twenty-two and nineteen thirty-two a field of blue
corn in the fields and the creak of tractor wheels between her final meals

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Flicker under yellow
street light
grey cement post
shadowed there
in silohuette
he darkens

Slow shift of
a body
weighed down by
creaking decades
of misadventure
and waiting

Now for something
or anyone
to notice
his boredom
with everything
and everyone