this was all a dream,
i think.

what did the world look like
(its contours and colors)
before the cyclones came,
before storms kicked up ordinary time
and twisted it,
spindled it,
into oblivion?

all i remember is,
the trains roared out of the station,
slaves to some awful schedule, and
the house trembled and went black—

no time to find a closet,
no time to open windows
(are you supposed to open windows?
notimetolookitup)
just time to collapse to the floor,
put my body over yours,
and for once
you don’t giggle from my grip
for once
you just grab on and lie still
in this chaos between kansas and oz.

outside the picture window
here’s the picture:
a snaking column of storm
taunts
poises
strikes;
glass shatters,
i grip harder,
hold on
hold on
and i do, but it’s

time
that gets sucked away,

day splinters into night,

night whirls into morning

is it morning?
it is still.

eventually
i pry myself off the floor
and stand:
and the debris is terrible

but i have survived
and so have you;
so the wreckage is bathed
in technicolor hope.



a work in progress