live many birds
that can fly, but usually don’t—
                                 peacocks and swans, ducks and geese.

The swans glide the lake, their legs doing work
underwater, their bodies doing nothing but float.

The peahens sleep in hutches and hatch
their babies there. I saw one had died once and ants crawling into and over its beak,
mother and siblings unconcerned.

The cocks cross the pavement between hutches and headstones,
rolling their cobalt necks. They flutter to perch and then shit on the stones.

I walk in a cardinal-pointed circle. Towards Yma Sumac interred in white marble. Then south
along Paramount Studios. To Dee Dee Ramone’s marker, caked with coral kissprints.
Back to the white-lettered sign in the hills to the north.

I pause in my walk. I face to the east. Two women share a joint by the lake.
A man in green chest waders pushes a pole with a net through the sludge.