The near, the clear, and vaunts the clearest bloom,
And of all the vigils musing the obscure,
That apprehends the most which sees and names"
-Wallace Stevens
Lying awake
at night, in a room with
no window
just thinking—somewhere
else, the bright
moon is showing
off her halo;
somewhere, the shadows
below tip their
black hats, or else
genuflect—somewhere,
the silence is not nearly
this shallow,
somewhere
or other, it must be still
snowing—
that deep and dream-
silent kind
of snow, those
feathery little piano
arpeggios—falling clean
and clinging,
to the surface of a glass
and steel city
with a much
more beautiful
name—than Chicago.
