1.
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.
2.
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.
3.
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.
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