NEON SNOW PATROL
Kevin Latimer

snow kicks on slow, then a baritone roar; shadows bleach
stark bone, pupil thinning in a spool of milk. dizzying
sirens, ambulance jetting past. nun's palm in mine, leading me
through the street. the street is in a dark alleyway & the alleyway
is on a station to mars. locusts, big ones—size of a star or a lamppost—
fill the skyline with a sudden burst. they’re all over the city now,
the nun says. in front of us stands a man with ears too close
to the sun. antennae to the universe. i turn to run & the nun turns
to run & the man with big ears now blocking out the sun. ears
poke the sun’s underbelly. then a pink-white-yolk thing gelling
the man’s hair. the nun gleans a pink-white-yolk smile & explodes
all over the man. sheriff jogs in, shoots three arrows into
the ground. i put my hands up, pantomime. this scene repeats
many times: light folds into itself. your hair is ombré. air a
honing signal. small button slips off my shirt, bruises the ice.
puck sliding an arctic rink. snowflakes dance around the button-
holes, jumping rope with the frazzled strings. STATUS: me,
like the subterraneans, homesick & blue