FOUR POEMS
Junk Trees,
the Bradford Pears, green-and-white globes of my girlhood
whose smell I’ve tried to name for years, settling on piss,
but walking by a row of them on my way to the grade school,
I thought baking soda. Junk trees, those spring debutantes
stinking in their crinoline, beginis almost gone—only three more days of cold white once
