 Between the next poet and I, we probably have a poem about every single person in that gallery. And so, it would take way too long to read all of them. I'm going to read one, and then I'm going to call out Neely Tchaikovsky. New Century in its teens, my hero's moving on. Radio poet in the bay, I remember you. Micah'd paint in the smell of copal. The heartwood of this city can be split along growth rings and woven. That prison place, and even the idea of judgment, the salt is taking the buildings that still stand there. You are on Indian land. Bay water. I knew it pretty well back then, fishing with my dad for bullheads, the crab nets that taught me early lessons in how to set a trap with string, or with those words. There are things I don't remember. Somehow that old bait shop by Garadelli is muddled in my childhood with the occupation. Those spike-riddled lures in the back of the old Toyota and Muni Pier. The salt and muscle colonies. How many crabs can I name now? Radio poet in the bay, we are still here, draped in those healing fogs. The pelicans are back. They're back. And the salty prayer smoke will bring word. There are still human beings for now. For now, the salt still sings here and in the living sand. So, Nili Tchaikovsky.