The man who could fly beat his wings
above the bush and took the best close-up
of a butterfly ever snapped or so he wanted.
But the butterflies, the hummingbirds, the wasps
were unimpressed. With their beaks, song, and stingers,
they poked and stabbed and lunged, called
for reinforcements: poked, stung, and lunged.
The man had grown gold pinions from his fingers.
The hard bones of his forearms and humerus
stretched long and hollow, like flutes.
But the multilingual wasps know contrivance.
They huddled with the crows and the hummingbirds.
Swarming, they tore the man to the down and deleted his jpegs.
They taught him soil, schooled him on the invention of mud.
