Φόβος οὐκ ἔστιν ἐν τῇ ἀγάπῃ, ἀλλ’ ἡ τελεία ἀγάπη ἔξω βάλλει τὸν φόβον…
       1 John 4:18

Squills and daffodils
spill over barricades
of law-abiding flowers

until lawns with signs
that warn they have been
treated sweep them under a rug

and huddle behind iron fences
with locked gates. Mosque
exchanges glances

with the BP station
on the corner, a long
discourse concerning

corporate personhood
contained in the silence
between them. Christ

the King (a madrasa
in another tongue), not
a mile away, listens.

Fences begin to sway
where Muddy Waters lived,
and the sidewalk is a mosaic

of broken glass glittering
in sun. Most cardinals
stick to the score,

but song sparrows have been
jamming since sunrise. Spring
cannot contain itself, and when

a young guy strolls by miles later
on Wabash strumming a guitar,
I suppose less than perfect

love will suffice
for now.