in the t-shirted midday he jogs away

the three kilometres, sheep seem profound

considering things less than last year,

perhaps more alive / or, a blanketish blasé

it’s the crows on this stretch of road, big

fucking things, that make themselves notable

he notes them later, legs sharing a blanket

with her, the adjectives of light that

make things gold / i copy thomas

uncertainly, wondering at

birds & death on a birthday

yeah i appear at the end