Porcelain

Why do you tell stories about clay pots

When you made me like translucent pearl

Beautiful, they say, and perfectly formed,

Meant for good things,

Offering up delicacies in the golden light of candles

Shimmering on my sides. But then,

They see beauty in inherent flaws:

Not just chipping, but shattering

With the slightest blow, no practical use,

A pretty bauble. You could have made me sturdy

And beautiful in earthier ways, as strong as the mountains

You pulled me from. I could see your fingerprints

In my rough ridged sides, see my color and know my roots,

Take a hundred knocks off the shelf and never break.

But instead, you baked me and shaped me in the fire

Till what you made me was my death.

Nobody thinks that broken pieces are beautiful.

Snow in Chicago

I


You mute the air

And I can open my eyes wide,

Sky and asphalt and naked trees

Dressed in the same gray white,

Soft. You smooth the creases,

Cover over sharp edges and points, shroud

The dirt and broken bottles and forgotten

Socks in gutters. Everyone drives politely, if only

Out of fear and the

world slows

Down.



II

The old homeless woman looks happier than usual,

Though her tennis shoes surely have holes, leaking slush

To soak her only pair of socks. But people are more generous

When they see those shoes in the snow, below her chapped red face,

And almost every car brings an open window and

A handful of cash. She tucks it in her coat so it won’t get wet

And gives you thanks even as you freeze her naked fingers.



III

Young man (black or white?) shuffles along, face hidden in his fluffy hood,

The same worn by the businessman (known only by his briefcase)

trotting to the bus and the old woman (or man?)

Burdened by grocery bags, back to the wind.

Median trees, barely growing in two feet of precious soil,

Stretch endlessly up the fathomless, falling sky,

Each twisted twig a silver scepter. They arch in majesty

Over the asphalt, now a silver carpet, and for a while

Make an avenue of kings.

For one hour, the city shares in a communion of clothing

When you give them clean white robes covering

The filth of collected carelessness.