James Tate, p.1


     The spy plane flew over my house every
day. I knew what they were up to. They were
trying to photograph my journals and my docu-
ments. But I was photographing them too. I
gave my friend Simon a pill to take in case
they ever tried to interrogate him. He gave
me his word, but I don’t really trust him.
Oh, sure, he’s a nice guy, but this thing’s
too big. It’s colossal. It’s the air you
breathe. It’s the ground you stand on. It’s
the little hummingbird sipping from the beebalm.
It’s the ruby-throated hummingbird darting
out of sight, that’s what it is.