The chilled moon floats, a small pill.
I toss food into the gaping
mouths of fish.

I dive into the water,
and the water bends behind me.
So this is how you use a thing
till it returns, or churns, again, to life.

The springs are all the same spring now.
The dirt daubers come, bearing mud.
Layer upon layer they build a mold
to hold one egg, obscuring
the origin in excess, until there is no origin left.

In the morning I walk through the garden and watch
one hummingbird hang at the mouth
of a hibiscus. Benevolent, I want to call it.
It puts its whole body inside what it tastes.