Runcible Spoon

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                   Unnatural History


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

long dead.


    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.