Where the curve leaves
       the page, his thighs
begin.
 
Follow
       across paper and slow,
             turning it over (paper or thigh?). . .
 
                          O Scientist Knox,
             use your fingers to trace
the bell of his chest, any statistics
you might be tracking.
 
Forget the box
       of hummingbird eggs
                      you hold inside—
 
             See their perfectly smooth curves.
       I’ve preserved them, their tiny
size, and ah, their greatness.
 
Look at his face—
       what do you see other than shells, half-moons?
                      Wings emerging at cheekbones?
                  The tongue of a bell?
       A patch of nest hidden against the bamboo?
O sweet, sweet hummingbirds,
fly now.
 
What are the numbers here? How many
           days before an egg opens?
                      How many handprints would stretch
                    across his abdomen? Document this
 
                      until morning beneath the covers
       of your science book, Gray’s Anatomy,
the last page of a Cloud in Trousers.