The breezy, conversational élan of Lee Ann Brown’s poems may convey an air of ease, but her deft, discerning ear is hard at work hearing subtleties of diction amid the flow of song. In fact, the very question of whether the work is spontaneous or studied artifice “Undoes Itself on an organic twittering machine.” In Brown’s poems, as readers we are often placed as the third term in an overheard exchange of intimacy, creating a triangle we may choose to collapse into a “Menage a deux” depending upon how much we believe it at a given moment. And we have permission to do as we like, Brown’s soundplay modeling exploration and experiment through its tone-leading, “women or men, we are well we are sore sonnets” that learns from Stein but is more voiced like Bernadette Mayer or O’Hara, and which seems hooked on a you, alternately a lover, a reader, or an exchange between mother and daughter. Her poems written in collaboration with her daughter are surprising and chatty, “Are the buds for leaves or for flowers? / They are Arrow Buds and we will check back tomorrow.” At other moments, she is able to hear kinds of sounds that are uniquely moving, precariously balanced at a catachresis yet scrambling over lines breaks with a WCW-like gangliness, “Yes I feel familiar / to you yet don't know / you at all / yet totally look forward / to getting to know the / Specifics.” I could listen to this song all spring. Please welcome Lee Ann Brown.