In a locked chest of quieted brushfire,
boring matrimony,
and being holy,
a storm is manifesting.

It’s been there since ancient times,
but it’s been long ignored by the people of the Great North.

Its power has only grown.

In a nuthouse leaning east except,
for dreaming crookedly,
two rabbits
prance the pulsing meadow in secret.

They give no second glance to the village.
Hand in hand, the blackness swallows them whole.

But what they’re seeking can’t be found in daylight.

In a bloodied chest, scars grow golden—
tipping counterweights
and gumption.
A heartbeat is only visible to those who can’t hear it.

It skips a beat, then two, three.
He whispers urgently, with all the life force he has left.
She shudders.
He falls.

And in a nutshell, the river surges
until it dries.
Foreign, wretched, and whole,
there’s only one way we die.

Alone.