We've almost gotten
used to this thing—we,
the arch-
shouldered, wind-buffeted
incumbents of Chicago—
the head of this great
and furious
giant of the ancient Midwest—
now sleeping
drunken, with its tongue lolling.
But looking out
and down
from the bewildering
vacancy of the winter harbor,
if the night is still
and the air is cold
and clear enough,
we can see
the inside of its watery black
mouth is filled with stars.
