Arrhythmia

To have no future

but what was curtained

as occlusion, a skipped beat

the heart dropped into

like a button does

the buttonhole. Shutters

are shut in accordance

with their purpose, to blind

the meadow’s view and leave

you there, seeing nothing

but slats. That you may close

your eyes and find sleep

another field, truer

for never having been

a field at all. Impossible

to lead your life, leaving

all doors unopened

on whatever you are

destined to ruin

just by being

yourself.