It's late and I am sleepy so I wrote one more poem

Pigeons

Pigeons came. Ate the herbs outside my door.
They'd sit out on my balcony and coo
loudly when I was working. Pigeons do
much that's annoying, shit upon the floor

wander into the hall, flap at the light
and have to be shooed out into the air.
They've stupid little eyes. Pigeons don't care
About what we want. When they sleep at night

they murmur in their sleep where I can hear
inside the wall. I thought I'd better scare
them off, hung shiny mobiles everywhere
made from computer discs. They squawk in fear

at silver spinning circles with their eyes.
One makes love to himself – at least he tries.

I had more eye surgery today, and wrote the traditional poem to distract myself

Opera 1

A singer;s high notes are the point where Word
is neatly deconstructed into sound,
tenses, then leaps to Heaven in a bound.
Whatever deep emotions have occurred

upon the stage – extremes of love and hate
giggles or tears – all that the singer feigns
the truth is that their voice is taking pains
to sing it right. And so we celebrate

not First Act complications of the plot
not how they end in marriages or death
nor even how the valet in one breath
zips through some list.. For in the end it's not

passion or farce or doom. A imple air
hangs like cut diamond, and just shimmers there.