It is possible that I have been unfair
to them, the flamboyants:
to opals, to abalones, to moths
more phosphorescent
than any eyeshadow I’ve worn—
because who knows?

Maybe the painted bunting
would willingly trade
his layered, paint-by-number capes
for the robin’s rusty apron. Maybe
the hibiscus is not a satellite dish
tilting on its stem to overhear
the praise of passers-by
but an umbrella mortified
that day has left it open
in a narrow place to dry. Maybe
the Northern Lights’ magic
is static, escaped photons
from the cupped palm of a modest
earth, smoothing her skirt.

. . .

But there, too, I have been unjust,
asking the bird to disavow
his jaunty beauty, rose mallow to flower
rue. Wanting to be fair—

let me trade it for plain
delight. Let me quit shaming
the flame-like things
or, at least, let the wind
unwinding its argon sarong
not mind the likes of me.