Wolf hour.
Bass in the body.
Bass in the road.
Bass in the dark.

Abdi knows the way.

Between plowbanks
through thaw-eaten March margins
along road 356.

The headlights falter in mist.
The forest closes in.

Still Abdi knows.

In the back seat
a slender shadow rides north,

medical-transported,
long-legged,
silent.

Not laughter.
Not cinema joy.

Yet the same film-breath
moves through the car.

Names hold the road.

Notträsk
Skogså
Skatamark
Inbyn
Åskogen
Nedre Flåsjön
Degerselet
Niemisel

Names like posts in the dark.

Evil apples under the radar.
Paper slips bloom in offices.

Couperin waits in the rooms
where diagnoses draw themselves.

Pärt gnaws the endgames.
Alarms face alarms.

Security firms bring antidotes.
Still the road goes north.

Station 45.
Birch lane.
03:15.

Abdi turns the car.

“Is this where you live, brother?”

The door closes.

Red tail-lights descend the fog.

Bass follows them
down the birch lane
from Noret’s hill of till.

Toward Överkalix
the shadow-woman travels on,

belted lightly
like an astronaut
sleeping in orbit.

Porch light.

Steps.

Spotify.

2PAC still moving north
through the wolf hour.