Every now and then I try that miraculous thing called thinking
when––or so they tell me––you speak inside your head:
elegant monologues and soliloquies addressed
in collections of pictures and words and emotions,
always somehow more eloquent in the mind than in the world.
When I try, however, my head seems unable to pace,
unable to merely look down with brow narrowed in thought
and hands clasped behind the back or perhaps resting on the chin
as everyone else seems capable, as everyone tells me is possible.

Instead, when every now and then I try that miraculous thing called
thinking, my thoughts choose to flitter like hummingbirds
before my eyes, through my ears, out of my mouth,
running between the cloth of my clothes
or often flowering out of my shoe where––it seems––
they’ve built a nest, with eggs resting, warmed
by the heat of my foot. I try that miraculous thing
called thinking and the eggs perched at my heel
start to crack, and I spend the rest of my hours listening
as the little hummingbirds inside peck at
the shells of their eggs. And then I return to trying that miraculous
thing called thinking and they all somehow
crack open the thin shell and start biting at my shoulders,
picking away my hair, grabbing at my eyes,
clawing for my mouth and pecking at my head
as though it was just another shell with more hummingbirds inside
if I could only get it open and achieve that
miraculous thing called thinking.