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?