running from my writing cell. Storm where are you blowing to, can I ride along on those steel-white billows, gulls at my feet, the green sweep of earth rolling away to horizon’s crescent flash. Taste of a snowflake crafted over some other ocean or continent on these thousand-day dry lips. I could clamber out into the roof gutter, don my emergency Daedalus suit and let the winds snatch me from the slates. Too soon though, this isn’t my storm. I’ve miles still to stomp in these reality boots.
