SNOWBALL

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;

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.