We abandoned the street names together
and tried to decide a better way
of falling down these roads and bars
and coffeeshops and bookstores,
anything that meant we didn’t
have to name the floor below
or have to name

“Strange Weather”

They drove without looking at each other
for the longest time.
She was scared she’d turn and see
a tornado, twisting upward, grasping houses
and diners and schools and friends.
That’s not what she see’s; it’s
a flash of blue
at the steering wheel, eyeing a future
marked on the road in front of them.


The swapped colours, carefully:
the ground grew silver
the hut dirtied its boosts,
before whispering nothings about isolation,
of tree trunks paces
from doorless doorways
and dark inviting portals.
It cycled owners, remembering faces
who’d taken refuge in the nothing
before one day wandering alone
and finding civilisations thumbprint
stamped in an asphalt exit ramp
awkwardly clearing its throat
offering rescue.