Sleepers

A black-chinned hummingbird lands 

on a metal wire and rests for five seconds; 

for five seconds, a pianist lowers his head 

and rests his hands on the keys; 

a man bathes where irrigation water 

forms a pool before it drains into the river;

a mechanic untwists a plug, and engine oil 

drains into a bucket; for five seconds, 

I smell peppermint through an open window,

recall where a wild leaf grazed your skin;

here touch comes before sight; holding you, 

I recall, across a canal, the sounds of men 

laying cuttlefish on ice at first light;

before first light, physical contact, 

our hearts beating, patter of female rain 

on the roof; as the hummingbird 

whirrs out of sight, the gears of a clock 

mesh at varying speeds; we hear 

a series of ostinato notes and are not tied

to our bodies’ weight on earth.