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.