Lakeview, Chicago by Robert Miner

There are no constellations visible in the Chicago sky

no laurel trees in Lakeview,

no signs of divine transformation.

But tattoos grow up your arms

like protective bark.

Beard, flannel, knit cap

armor you like the lion’s skin of Heracles—

but your shaking hands tell me

Chicago has no oracles to divine

how to cleanse sins of madness.

Clothes discarded on

Lake Michigan’s edge,

Floating beneath the surface,

watching clouds through rippling water

waiting for emergence.

Catching your breath

entering the Walgreen’s turnstile,

surrounded by so many people…becoming,

will this be the time you find yourself

someone else on the other side?