GOING HOME
In the countenance of unlocked winds,
The moth-sustained night withers, and
Chicago, turning from drowsiness,
Turning into the flat Indiana countryside
Below me, is ladled with rain.
And I am flying away from the coldness
Of those early morning concrete streets.
A coldness which is deeper in my bones than
A funeral march, much deeper than the winter’s
Winds off Lake Michigan that howl and rumble
Though the giant maze like an invading army.
A passenger in row twenty-two, I turn and
Peer through the small porthole in the starboard
Side at the Windy City, a just epithet for all the
Past blowhard politicians. Chicago is on display
In a fragile crystal ball, the steel monuments
Scratch the clouds and the river demurs and
Curls backwards.
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