Of all—
the glitzy
and greenshingled homes
and the new-
fangled clamoring
storefronts that sprawl—
with proud
slanted roof lines—in a glaze
across the lengths
of another latterly
unhumbling
suburban boulevard—it seems only
the old grim
and squat—straight
up and down
limestone-
stacked
chapel of
a tacit Saint
John
of the corner lot—
truly looks
as if it—plainly
and guiltlessly knows
how to own
the whole morning's
vast—and so
patently
unspendable—fortune of snow.
