This tornado’s funnel kiss along the waters of Lake Huron.
Port Albert beach: a foreign language might be stripped
of borders, nothingness. The air thins, tinny. The scent
of low pressure vacuum. The hairs on each arm.
When Amy and Andrew visited, he and I each gathered
our combined small children—two
toddlers, two infants—for a playground jaunt. I caught
the shift in the air and said, we have to go. We held
our boundaries. This onslaught of rain. We barely made
it back to the house.
Environmental. I wish to make my questions
known, from lifted references. My beloved clash.
I found this image on the internet, I no longer
remember where. But it makes my point.
Displacement: where the rain meets silence,
where the word meets open space. The calm
converts to lawn.