Kill me; why did I decide to do this stupid reading? I'm not a poet anymore. I'm looking through this stupid collection and trying to find anything I can scrape together to fit the theme of optimism. Of course, I have a huge blemish on my face, but who will be looking? Who will be shocked to see that I'm older, scraped up, less in shape? It's all so tired and expected. Will I freak out about what to wear? 

I had to write up my bio and managed to skip anything maudlin or cute. Just my name, my schooling, my publications, the themes in my work. Themes, really. 

In the graveyard, the baby hawks in the big tree have hatched. I found their giant egg shells on the ground under the tree, and when I looked up, I could see one of the parent hawks feeding something furry into the nest. Eat or be eaten. At least nature keeps going.