Steven Peterson

What I throw out to those I love
  Returns unreached to me, to me.
Bow stubborn knees to God above?
  I do if prayer turns round to me.

We’ve closed our theatres—a silence rules.
Homebound with Internet and iPhones, stocked

Chicago. January. Present time.
“The core of winter,” says our weatherman,
Whose forecast draws more eyes than local crime
Or something happening in Somewheristan.
...

Around December first, the summer people
All have gone. Some had stayed to see the fall
And some for hunting season—all have gone.

We take our shoes off, leave them by the door,
And sit in batik shirts and khaki shorts
In Paul’s colonial house in Singapore.