Irene was a nasty dream. Waking
up with colors
in my eyes, watching her
falling down inside
my mouth. I was
covering my ears flat
as possible. The rusty wagon dripping old
and wet, it slowed—
stopped.

My hurricane is me—
I could not know. My flashlight told
me that. Fueling myself to
push back into normal,
I could convince myself
that was
just
a nasty dream