An Instance of Asymmetry

Sitting in my living hand, a hummingbird
Found on the doorstep, as if in offering;
The stillness there a palpable thing,
A kind of object. My hand trembles
With a strange grief for all stillness,
But I insist the name written speaks
Of the thing itself: The fine green
Feathers luminous still, the needle beak
Slightly open, separated from itself;
A dreaming thing, the weight of nothing,
Of air and the fierce fire of living.
I whisper over it, hummingbird,
To beat back the death there, to beat
The wings again, the word so fast
Passing through the air you cannot see it.