But would the Tree of Heaven

A rose, indeed,
By another name
May smell so sweet,
But would the Tree of Heaven,
Fondly known
In certain childhood quarters
As the Stink Tree?

Pigeons

Pigeons are the German shepherds
Of the world of birds
Low-slung, big shouldered
Built for the kind of strength
Comfort requires

Escalades to the finch’s Audi
Or the robin’s Chevrolet

Sparrows scurry
Cardinals and woodpeckers burst in
With guns blazing

Pigeons browse
Sublimely unaware
Of their own intrusiveness

Only the eyes reveal
Inner fires

Night falls slowly in
A descending gauze curtain
Snagging on sunrise
Hesitant, ambiguous
Like interrupted breathing.

11 pm in Riga
Windows wide as yawning
Outide it’s as bright as a cloudy day
In St. Louis

Some workmen decide
It’s a fine time to install a kiosk
Across the street
Just because

Drilling, banging, smoking
A marvelous night’s work
No one sleeps
Time enough for that
In winter

I sit up
Banging out poems
With a relentless clatter

Morning broke,
And she was still beside me,
Inside me.

In the unbearably sweet
Suffocating
Liberating
God-swelling moment

All bare, all received,
All unworthy of the trusting touch
All unable to live
Without it.

Love slips unbidden
Past the barricades
Like a curious tremor,
An unswaddled child

All bare and raw,
All out, out,
The last suckling breath
Lurking in some wild corner,
Seen at last
Relinquished at last.

Inexplicable,
Like rain,
Inextinguishable,
Like morning sun.
Impervious
To all the years.