Hummingbird

A SHAPE more subtle than the mind believes
Adheres to the listless air
By two gray puffs of mist
That must be wings
And climbs it stair by stair
To use the flying needle
On the painted tissues
Stirring with the wind’s hair.

How can no more than a crooked finger
Beat feathers to a hum half-heard
And feed on flower dust
And drink sweet unsubstantial drops
And still be called a bird?

In what experiment did He
Forget the bird’s equation
And repeat the bee?