What we’ve come to
I hadn’t noticed your sunspots. Sprinkled over hands the way soil speckled skin.
The Specimen Jar
I don’t remember hearing the thunder. I felt it, swelling and buffeting close to me.
The Fourth Bustop
The bus rumbles under him like an irregular heartbeat. He reverses, watching the cyclone fence edge closer in the trembling rear vision mirror.
Under the Bridge
Truck tires roll heavily over the bridge. Like a roll of thunder during a dry storm.
Black Hail
The rains broke but it was too late. They’d approached from horizons, shadowy and slanting, turning, and billowing.
Two Bedrooms Out the Back
It was the smell I noticed. It arrived before the seismic wave of sheer heat.