The Religion of a Hummingbird, Shimmering
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
If I had wings, I’d flap them fifty beats
Per millisecond. I would drink the juice
Of see-through fuschias by the golden streets
Of heaven, see-through streets. I’d make no truce
With emperors in Samarkand, but hold
Out for the spoils of peace, and lay
My eggs in nests more precious than the gold
That New Jerusalem withholds. The spray
That rises from the falls that fill those streams
Imagination makes would be fixed warm
So I could leave my eggs to feathered dreams
Because I’d know that chicks were safe from storms.
I’d fly away and use my beak to fill
With sweets my soul forever bright and still.
~ Phillip Whidden