Even the hummingbird
is death
a tiny green thrum
like this
made the world
the Aztecs knew
and you do
it is the pulse
almost too quick to be felt
if you throw a stone at it
you will miss
its jewel-point workings
these flowers tumble
before the invisible
if we had hands like this
we would know


The Ravenous Things

Van Gogh lied.
He never painted
the sunflowers
as he last saw them,
honestly,   looking up
from underneath,
down on the earth,
bullet in his chest,
within shadows they cast
in their pointless
multitudes, as they tossed
their heads in blue
above, greedy
to eat as much
of the sun
as they selfishly