I didn't know your name, and there you are,
miniature galaxy, your gravity
towing the view from Jerome out toward Wilson
mountain: against the bruise where desert sky
 
crunches on peaks, where the burnt-over stones
stay in sharp edges and old cubes, you float
free, the wisp of your wing barely visible
in so much pain.  You have no spines, only
 
the weapon of surprise—the same Eve used
against the snake where he nearly retreated
because beauty etched itself through a pin-point
in cruelty.  We're beholden to you, golden
 
universe, the nectar-dharma that only invites, only
embraces, and only awaits us to come closer.