Fort Night

The snake is 

a sleeve the deer 

puts on, its mouth 

a beaded cuff 

in the haze men 

make of morning 

with each release 

of their fist-gripped 

guns. Is this a dream 

of shame? Is this 

a dream of potential

unmet, of possibility 

undone? School, 

no pants. Brush, 

no teeth. Podium, 

no poems. Open

door, all wall. 

Dear Monster,

none of the guests 

we disinvited arrive. 

In the darkness 

no lion comes.