Tuesday, February 9, 2016


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 many vulgar birds.
And then, you

start to suppose:
this is
just how life is, though—irrelevance;

and mountains
of it,

some of it 
quite beautiful, and some of it—
you flush to admit—

some of it
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.