How is it, Chicago—the sheer resonant beauty
sponsored by your early
April afternoons
must always be composed of
so many smaller and
unbeautiful pieces?
Or had we better ask
the trash-mad seagulls?—
boomeranging hard just now
about the bloated clouds,
seemingly hitting
all the wrong keys at once—as if charged
yet again this season
with the inglorious task—of
just making sure
this wheezy old organ
still works.
