Wednesday, October 28, 2015


Looming—near and distant
and wreathed in plumes 
of anxious Carl Sandburg fog,

ancient cathedral spires still festoon and designate
the otherwise-obscure skyline
of a conscious but still-slumbering Chicago;

inspiring no huge or otherworldly feelings now,
apart from, perhaps, 
the dim comfort—of familiar forms 

and exploitable structure. For here
and there in the gloom, they seem to form, adroitly, 
certain patterns—beacons

in a labyrinthine prison, wherein still manage 
to move each morning
the hopes and fears of its uncalled-upon millions;

of remaining always
lost amid its arcane passageways—

of yet discovering, 
through the tyranny of such a maze, their freedom.