From The Inner Dome of The Temple at Wilmette

In the Signature Room on the 96th floor of the Hancock Tower narrow as the quick of looking through and woven
around, the interstate, also a number, I-90/94, from a mouth affixed to full lips next to an ear in advance of
a whisper, that has and continues to arrive, as itself, and only thirty-three years indifferent to some century, "how many?", almost
as if drawn, a splinter in lieu of a thorn, what bush, no wound, then one is there, "how many
heartbeats
do you think are hidden out there?", far as flung, a forest, and only sometimes in cahoots with a tree, then
two, mostly in care of ancestral erection--both meanings--that seem buildings and elsewhere. Like a mandala almost
but similar
to the Baha'i temple of Wilmette. That the afternoon also held, a Rusty Nail, a mojito. Up there
as intricate
as enclosed sky is felt. Echoes made inherent and relevent, and the surprise, architecture is emotive. Static
set in motion, unity in complexity, with busyness of relief written woven from columns, freeing enclosure
from walls. Just like this, from zero, Chicago. Funneled from two pairs overtaxed. Retina, rods and codes. Cone-forms
created ocean. So where ceiling sees from once felt can fly. Appearing just like thinking inside some old woman.