I’m not as scared of the stuffed animals
as I was when I was young. Glass eyes
glimpsed through glass are dull, holding
no malice for me or the hunter, himself
Instead, they are alleys,
tossed in a game with arcane rules
made up by kids with long shorts
and home-made jumpers; they’re stained
windows of a profane structure. They don’t
stare, just sit, neutral, in coarse pelts,
rough coats for sawdust.
There’s so little to see here, it scares me.