The smoky evening air
(From forest fires up north),
As I left South Station,
Made Beach Street just less than real.

I had spent the bus ride
Reading, mostly Lovecraft
And his modern successors.

Now, at my apartment
In the suburbs, my cats
Keeping me company,
And half a bottle of wine,

I think of fires and smoke,
Clouds of volcanic ash,
And plumes of undersea oil,

And a small and foolish
Corner of my mind — the
Wind picking up outside —
Wonders whether I will hear

No rain but thunder, and
The sound of giants.