First worries of the season & all we’re thinking

about: weather. As usual. That
invariable variable. That constant

impossibility. Some forecast &
what defies. Staring down another

map, all that proximity to, & thinking
what if? & again? & those cycles

unbreakable until they’re not. Here
hail pounds rooflines, nothing close

to mild, & we’re wide-awake & guttering
along with everything come down

too fast. There an everywhere so early
still, already desert, dust storm, nearly

minefield. There everything tumble
-weed, made tinder.





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