The snow-coated blacktop steams.

Gas leaks in the basement, mutts whinny at high-pitched steam.

A woman exhales on her front porch, molecules tessellate to white steam.

The cemetery granite turns to batter beneath rain, crackling, steaming.

Domboski’s swing set is consumed by sinkhole—collapse, then steam.

Graffiti on Route 61, its valley pried open to choked jaw of steam.

Ladybugs climb the Assumption of Blessed Mary under summer heat, shells steaming.

Silver-blue minivans emerge and putter into 2019, where teenagers burn

Newports: smoke curling to a haze of steam.