Windy City

The garments worn in flying dreams were fashioned there— overcoats that swooped like kites, scarves streaming like vapor trails, gowns ballooning into spinnakers. In a city like that one might sail through life led by a runaway hat. The young scattered in whatever directions their wild hair pointed, and gusting into one another, fell in love. At night, wind rippled saxophones that hung like windchimes in pawnshop windows, hooting through each horn so that the streets seemed haunted not by nighthawks, but by doves. Pinwheels whirled from steeples in place of crosses. At the pinnacles of public buildings, snagged underclothes— the only flag—flapped majestically. And when it came time to disappear one simply chose a thoroughfare devoid of memories, raised a collar, and turned his back on the wind. I closed my eyes and stepped into a swirl of scuttling leaves.