Today I almost bought you a hummingbird feeder,
thinking, why not have their long, hovering beaks over for nectar?
Since we have big weeds and loud singing birds already
squawking, really, in this sticky wet air,
With hammers and bells in the Sunday streets
And the steady blowing fan, the annoying horn of the train,
Until we reach a clearer hour, which flattens the bad music
Leaving only a hum that falls like water on leaves
After three years and three people soon in this house
And always more versions of “hum”-- nous, nahono, assi, uns
Just this something, only a bumbling attempt to express myself
With a wish for hummingbirds and other things to come.