O, Chicago, O’Hare

O, Chicago, O’Hare
By April Ossmann

One among the shifting mass
of humanity intent
on countless destinations,
one hungry stomach

and dry mouth among many,
one brain dazed
by the speed and altitude
of flights unnatural

to any animal, by herding,
followed by waiting
succeeded by rushing,
waiting, herding—

and more flight
incomprehensible
to any body contained
in this seemingly unwieldy

mass of metal lifting
improbably over Chicago,
where a misty orange aura
hovers over the city’s

brighter lights, as if
its soul sought ascension
it could only attempt,
as if the aura

might break free
and follow us,
wherever we might fly,
wheresoever we may rest—

one with the multitude
of humans en route
through mystery,
to mystery.

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