From the tiers of the river,
a floe of fog shears
Chicago’s drifting citadels—
their buoyant bulk hovers
like oscillating droplets
amid eddying vapors overflowing
the locks of the man-hewn Hennepin.
Like Monet’s Charing Cross Bridge,
a smudged tint in suspended mist
on the opposite bank,
my parents’ place, gains definition
as I silently slide away.
[Check out other original poems here.]