by William Talcott (1936 – 2006)

When they’re hard
up for sugar they’ll steal bugs
the spiders wrapped in their webs.

The bones of the arm are so reduced
the wing’s a feathered hand.

The poet has one in the peach
branches of his poem
on top of news from the gulf
and scattered references to machismo.
I arrive in time to add an Aztec note.

I’ve seen the tongue
insinuate its way to the sweet
center of a rose.
I’ve heard the tick tick in fuschias
like little bombs.

They say the consecration of its temple
required the blood of ten thousand hearts.

And here is an article in CNet about Talcott’s lost passwords, as mentioned by Bruce.

Are they the tongue of the hummingbird? Could his passwords be hidden in his poetry?

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