Talking with my beloved in New York br I stood at the outdoor public telephone br in Mexican sunlight, in my purple shirt. br Someone had called it a manwoman br shirt. The phrase irked me. But then br I remembered that Rainer Maria br Rilke, who until he was seven wore br dresses and had long yellow hair, br wrote that the girl he almost was br "made her bed in his ear" and "slept him the world." br I thought, OK this shirt will clothe the other in me. br As we fell into long-distance love talk br a squeaky chittering started up all around, br and every few seconds came a sudden loud br buzzing. I half expected to find br the insulation on the telephone line br laid open under the pressure of our talk br leaking low-frequency noises. br But a few yards away a dozen hummingbirds, br gorgets going drab or blazing br according as the sun struck them, br stood on their tail rudders in a circle br around my head, transfixed br by the flower-likeness of the shirt. br And perhaps also by a flush rising into my face, br for a word -- one with a thick sound, br as if a porous vowel had sat soaking up br saliva while waiting to get spoken, br possibly the name of some flower br that hummingbirds love, perhaps br "honeysuckle" or "hollyhock" br or "phlox" -- just then shocked me br with its suddenness, and this time br apparently did burst the insulation, br letting the word sound in the open br where all could hear, for these tiny, irascible, br nectar-addicted puritans jumped back br all at once, as if the air gasped.