Light reflecting off our metastatic world
stings my bruised eyes
as periwinkle grey encases everything I know.
I whip my wheel 
to a spot
our ticking clock stops…

A place I can’t breath
but the only space I can think.
Stainless steel flower stands blow to the ground,
geese flock frantically for cover
between cement labels,
and plastic bags roll around
like wrecking balls.

Wind slaps me across the cheek
drying the water droplets 
pasted to my face–
leaving behind
a remarkable lash.
I duck for cover as to not get soaked:

stares shooting daggers
into my chest from other
underground home
guests as they stand in a drought,
and I in a hurricane.