The humidity fuss of her sunflower
rattled in the recent mizzle turned tornado  

since a clipper dipped down from Dakota
causing closed highways and F4 winds.  

Her grip on the wheel’s adroit, open position
turning left, she mentions nitrogen and oxygen  

atoms. Panic of weather radio’s urgent basement
shelter. The city made vacant. Tattered ends,    

the thrushes of her bangs vibrate, she says “air
is an insulator” in the Post Dispatch gale.  

A lone cop car passing slow,
like some love poem,  

through the braille of scattered vehicles
peppering the median.