Why God Sends Egrets to Ride on Backs of Zebras (Men I Know)

I know a man who attracts hummingbirds wherever he goes,
they flock and whirr and dart and fight to be the first to drink,
he says not, but I think he may be a flower, perhaps begonia.

Another man I know parks a canvas chair by his cinder fire pit,
uses tongs to bring an ember to the end of a Reloba cigar,
leans back smiling, exhales a wild flight of a yarn,
one time, while we listened and watched the fire,
a cast of falcons flew out of his chest.

One man I know, familiar with surgical theatres, knows pain
the way a leaf knows wind, over the years he’s learned to let butterflies
cocoon him, cover him like a bandage, now when you meet him
it’s like meeting a giant butterfly person.

One man, though he tried, couldn’t help becoming a preacher,
his reluctance made him good, which made him famous,
which constrained him to become a zebra, who as we know
can be exacting, but he escaped it all through the limpid eyes
of an egret, who are famously gentle with their young.

One guy I know wears two turquoise capes
over a knee-length shift tied at one shoulder, he’s beautiful
with that one exposed shoulder and those silver neck rings,
and he sings like the scent of ripe mangoes,
it’s possible he’s a renowned Pueblo Indian woman.

One man I know dreams in crisp sounds: glass heel on ceramic tile,
hail stone on metal clad roof, five iron flush on a Titleist Pro,
supple arch, bounce and roll to centre of a Bermuda pasture,
7 handicap, hits a 79, Buddha zone.

Another man I know, despite great loss, is surely a Scarlet macaw,
if you visit, you’ll leave beaming; then again, he might be a nuthatch,
he can walk up a tree backwards, to such height, birds
fall from their perch, the hills clap, forests rejoice.

One man I know has invented a clever fractal lever to align
the pulse of the universe to the movement of the human heart,
when you’re near him it’s like roaming a meadow,
knowing tranquil is always possible.

One young man I know is a little deer who lies on mown grass,
he carries many wounds but his eyes are full of springtime
and his spirit light as pollen, he is nectar to those that know him,
and the partner of a begonia.

One man I know named his baby, Nova Rain Falling on Dry Grass,
and named his son, Scent of Cedar, and another,
Green Oblation of the Given Earth,
right there you can tell he’s a good father.

I myself have five sons: Sagacious Raven, Sociable Kestrel,
Stellar Jay of Decryption, Tibetan Rosefinch and Tropical Clef Swallow,
they all tell me there are too many birds in my poems,
I say, don’t worry, poetry will die,
the Sun will win.