17 December 1999

Chicago In December

My reflection rides outside of pane glass, the
transparent membrane separating
me from winter's frost forest
preserves, rains of thick
crystal flakes
frozen
red
in blinks
of airplane
wings like flashes of
every snowfall I've tasted,
sugar sky candy powdering lawns
underneath me, balled in damp mittens and chewed.

I
can still
feel the sting
of December through
my gloves and moonboots that would
change colors with the temperature,
tingling numbness through my snowsuit, sitting in
ice architecture, glittering cave
walls stabbed with clear stalactites
broken off the roof,
a snowman
standing
guard,

iridescent shimmer of puffy sidewalks
crushed in spaces by deep blue footprints
traveling toward staircases,
golden in twilight,
inviting
us in-
side.
I see
tangering fireplaces - cracks and
pops of embers amplified
dust on oscillating orange vinyl -
in windows of life-sized ceramic houses

once
tissue
wrapped and boxed,
topped in glossy curved
ribbons and kept on the soft
carpeting of my living room floor,
slowly being magnified in the descent.
Miniature locomotives and
automobiles billow gray,
pushing along paths
bringing them
closer
home.