David Epstein
Loan me that book you talked about,
where the birds rise in waves.
The one with windows open in winter,
that the author inscribed
To J, for J, because of how
while we are here, the Why
is answered like a thing to eat,
and does not die: sustains.
I look at you, a bird who in
and landed on my chair,
the back, (its sense of function pure)
as if we are a flock of two.