I can't hear myselffor the howlingseveral dozen states awaythe wadding stuffedunder the capof the decade.It's true:I can't see my handin front of my facebecause it's clutchinga stone in my left pocket.An image of a windsockat once fiercely & feeblyorange. The darkeningpalpable. At the firstpelted drops we smellthe charge in the airthe momentwe detect the quiverin the skin of the dogat our feet. The backsof our thighs embosseda plush pattern of flowersganged up on a threadbarearmchair. The bursting inof glass at each windowsuccessive, percussive.A silence eeriesbetween the boomsof the tossed trashcansin the street. The crackof a twig-snapped pole.The fizz of the downed wires.The television alreadylifting its heavy feet.____Shanna Compton's books include Brink, For Girls & Others, Down Spooky, Gamers, and several chapbooks. A book-length speculative poem called The Hazard Cycle is forthcoming. She is the founder of the Bloof Books collective and works as a freelance writer/editor and book designer.