i am once again inside a wind tunnel.
to create the illusion that i adhere to the rules and smoke cigarettes while standing in the doorway so outside not inside, i left the screen door propped open by it's tubular hydraulic system. now the metal rod is bent into an inverted C and the hinge has been nearly torn in two and it bounces around and as it bounces inside there's a drumming.
out my kitchen window, the trees on the far side of where the marsh was are clusters of fine white tracers against broken sectors of greyish brown; where the parking lot was is marsh; where the causeway was is water. the poles that keep the docks in place are matchsticks. on the dunes at the horizon, the phantom house is an outbuilding of the motel. where the grass was is water its surface little whitecaps. where the ice was, and clusters of birds had arranged themselves on its surface, there are irregular metal gashes.
the storm is a giant asleep on his side,...