If I live rightly there is the possibility that I will one day transport the nectar of the hibiscus in my needle throat through Mexico.

In Mexico they are smaller but faster and with more vibrations per minute than their sluggish Canadian counterparts.

If I live rightly there is the possibility of red dye instead of blood and the narrow proboscis and the enveloping pink of the hibiscus. There is the possibility of being so small in Mexico.

In Mexico they hover audible. A swat sound. Faster. Feathers the emerald phosphorus of beetle carapace. Heart the tiny palpitation of a pea-sized red sack.

If I live rightly there is the possibility of the feathering of my body, its bones, made brittle. Its blood, made nectar-sweet.

In Mexico. There is possibility.