From the silent
sweat of air
comes the noise
of monsters.
Maybe behind that hill
or shrouded by the
thickly-knitted forest.
Or it could be
the earth belching,
about to mutate
into a living thing,
opening its fissures
to swallow us.
Or the beast
is in ourselves,
growing behind lips,
skin changing
to green scales,
eyes bulging,
finger-nails sprouting
long and sharp.
Or perhaps it’s the fear
of any of these things,
the rumblings of what
could be as terrible
as anything that
will be.
Anytime, anywhere,
I imagine.