Mid-February at Navy Pier

From the far end of the pier I can see where

the sprawl of skyscrapers stops. The taxi I took

is still parked, Venetian mask hanging from the rearview

mirror, its gold sequins dulled and eyes vacant.

At this time of year it is empty.

Surface indistinguishable from sky,

from the gray expanse of it all. Snow falls over the lake

behind me and sticks to the mounted binoculars at the railing.

The shore’s edge has frozen into a white strip of bone

holding the lake in place against the cement and docked boats.

I can’t name what pushed me

to return to this place

where the curved glass of the Crystal Gardens catches only

the blankness of the day above the stilled carousel

I felt shrunken in the crowds. A burnt glow hovered

around the carts with roasted pecans in paper cones

and vendors selling odd trinkets—long beads, polished stones,

cartoon figurines, wooden snakes perforated along the sides

so that when held at the tail

they careened in the air.

above the carousel’s warped mirrors where a pale statue

of a woman’s head gapes downward at the horses frozen

Her lips are painted red. I can’t place this fear, precise

only because it is recognizable now and still spins me

further into something insignificant. And what’s left

of that time wants to be significant.

The Ferris wheel spokes fan into clouds

that stretch themselves thin

to the pier’s length and stare across the uneven surface

of the lake. Footsteps scratch over the salted ground,

then pause in front of me.

A woman twists a quarter

into mounted binoculars and peers away from all

she, too, can’t name, her figure almost vaporous.