Everyone’s poems have birds in even mine. The jays are real workers at their job, he said, and fatter than any jays I ever saw before. The birds are batting by. Thank you we had a lovely view of (the baroness, the baroness) everyone’s poems. I want to be simply the best we have too, and slow like the baroness, obscure and slow and carrying chips. So this one’s about me and unexpectedly long. A startling drop from branch to branch. Those birds she said are startling. Tomorrow is Sunday and I am spotless and rose. Dear Joe, a blackbird. Jim’s dead too. The stilts at the zoo go round and round. Everyone’s poems have birds in even mine.