Who could not love a word such as crocus
or pandemonium, or pantoum or villanelle,
though it might powder like moth wing
in the larynx of a cynic or misanthrope,
or secrete venom through the pores
of a conspirator or denialist? Such words
are hummingbirds, finches that trail
a caressing residue through the ether once we register
their absences, so beguiled have we been
by their momentary radiance. They are angels
with no need of pin-point to disembark,
pirouette or enumerate themselves:
the tips of our tongues, poetry, vesicles
a lilt will unleash unto beauty. Music.
