Winter in Chicago—goes
loosing its
impalpable fortunes
of useless
but utterly
limitless surplus—everywhere you go,
thwarting your attempts
to notice
and compose:
So much fine snow.
So much fine snow.
So many vulgar birds.
And then, you
start to suppose:
this is
just how life is, though—irrelevance;
mountains
and mountains
of it,
some of it
quite beautiful, and some of it—
you flush to admit—
some of it
simply
not quite as visual.
And most of all, just
so much
of it to find, that you're
content—to take a little
and leave
the rest behind.