Winter Memory of Chicago
by Andrea Potos

Leaving the el train at dusk,
the black wrought-iron fence topped with snow,
flakes bobbing under the lamps,
the body’s breath unfurling;
the windows of the secondhand bookshop
still lit, rush of bells and warmth
and dust as I stepped inside,
browsing like a return to home.
It was there I found the scratched,
silver-bound Proust, Remembrance
of Things Past, Swann’s Way,
the first and only
time I ever thought to read it,
and I did.


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