Δ

“Sailor’s delight, maybe,” she snides,

“but those clouds are menacing weird.”

We lose west a couple seconds,

and our internal clocks spin wild

as though we’ve driven since midnight

instead of since noon, and the sound

of breakers becomes Atlantic—

and we’ve gone back several decades.

“Like a storm’s coming in.” She checks

the rearview, the speedometer.

“Maybe it’s apocalyptic,”

said absently as infrared.

“Maybe those clouds,” she extends rock-

and-roll fingers, “are the heralds

of The STORM of ARMAGEDDON!”

We drive a while, pass a schoolyard.

“Probably just the regular kind.”