Chicago I
The night air is still past midnight,
Cars few, even on Lake Shore Drive.
I cross Millennium Park, the fountain lifeless
in preparation for the winter.
Buildings reach into the sky, their lights
everlasting, twinkling like artificial stars.
I hear a car horn, a distant cry for attention,
dragging me back to the cold pavement.
The air is brisk, crisp and fresh.
I smell the lake before the trees open up to it
It beckons me closer to itself, bids me
look upon its vastness and depth.
I look into the sky, expect only black,
but I'm surprised by the real stars I see.
Orion draws attention to himself, hanging sideways
as though by strings over Lake Michigan.
The sky dips toward the surface of the water,
growing darker and blacker until I see nothing.
The sky and water are the same now,
A void opened to me, vast and wide.
I wonder for a moment how that void would feel,
Realize how easy it would be to find out.
Step off the stone platform, splash,
sink to the bottom beneath the suffocating mass.
I pull myself back, turn to the skyline
that keeps the black nothing at bay
In the morning the lake will shimmer full of light,
Innocent and pure, but the void will return at night.