hands in the garden

dreamt of chicago
again,

with red
pen-

crossing off
blues,

but will chicago
dream of
me?

“sorry, man..” croons
on sufjan,

that letter, never mailed .

to sweetheart of
white veil,

i rue in cab
she’d..

dare not
hail

through these
shards of
town,

but chicago follwed
me home
so..

I’d not sleep
alone.