Temple of the rattlesnake’s religion. Deluge and heat-surge. Crèche of the atom’s rupture. Night blackens like a violin and bright flour falls from the kitchens of heaven. This is where the seams begin to loosen, where you can walk for miles in any direction— rabbit, lizard, raven, insect drone— and almost forget the shame of being human. Smoketree. Sage. Not everything is broken. Horses appear at this remote cabin to stand outside and wait for you to come with a single apple. Abandon your despair, you who enter here forsaken. The wind is saying something. Listen.