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?
This Issue
August 16, 2018
The ‘Witch Hunters’
The American Nightmare
The Queen of Rue