a whole flock
of comets—
or the ice and dust rings
of some massive
exoplanets—
have crash-landed
recently
on the streets of Chicago.
Now, it seems
everywhere I go,
odd bits of gravel,
salt cinders, snow
have blotted every curb,
sidewalk, underpass,
and gutter,
hindering breathing
and impeding travel.
Who could have guessed?
All this beyond-ancient
jetsam of space—
all of its ghostly,
beguiling debris
(which I used to only
see on TV
or splashed around
in glossy
school textbook photographs),
when it's piled up
in front of me, doesn't seem
so special.
