the bookstore looks closed when we arrive
yet its double doors stand open.
An employee perches on a counter, arms raised,
and another flaps a piece of cardboard in the dark.
They wish to save a hummingbird.
Choosing a book on kundalini by colour
and finding it unsatisfying,
the bird flits off to World War II,
then self-help psychology.
She must surely long for fuchsias.
For now the bird whirrs around an emergency light,
but the moon of twilight in a moment
will lure her out to a library of flowers,
to the poetry of bedded plants.
Inside, the lights will blink on,
and we will pause here, stop there,
pick up Neruda or Swift,
and drink our own deep nectar.