When the world ends, it will end in squirrels.
The sun will warm our bald spots, and the wind
will blow the stench of our failures into someone
else’s kitchen. No more being sad about the price
of acorns. No more hollow trees filled with someone
else’s nuts.

A Bar Lorca, Dickinson, and Neruda walk into a pub. It’s a pub we’ve all seen before, full of darkness and smoke and complaining. Neruda sits at the bar; Lorca chooses a booth. Dickinson stands by the bathroom, begging for change for the juke box. A fight breaks out, a dark fight. Neruda has been

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