She doesn't want longitudes and latitudes, favors roads mutable as a bracelet made of sand she can write an SOS in to the wind. She dreams of islands, magical as the fingers of the concert pianist, each with its own intelligence and breath. Meanwhile, alerts go out on local stations, schools close early. 30 percent chance of snow.
Trees tilt east, the ground hardens.
Nothing was painted. Pale maple and pine that hadn't weathered. I'm sure I have to be with. I'm imagining are my thighs. Outside the open glass, an April night full of branches rubbing other branches.