window to the world, but not my soul
a decadent landscape
in a gray toilet bowl.
cabs look like bumblebees,
buses are centipedes
any luckless pedestrian
is a grain of sand on a massive concrete beach
strewn with chain stores
and billboards that preach.
up here, where you can massage dark clouds
and see the high point of smog, up here,
where you can witness a shooting-star at point blank
and wink at jet pilots, up here,
where the hand of the cosmos is an outstretched branch,
and the notion of terra firma is a welcome illusion,
up here, the view from the top of sears tower
is a blossom in wintertime, just waiting to flower.
