so much as in dreams.
Our giant is not so tall，
our lizard boy merely flaunts
crusty skin- not his fault
they keep him in a crate
and bathe him maybe once a week.
When folks scream or clutch their hair
and poke at us and glare and speak
of how we slithered up from Hell，
it is themselves they see：
the preacher with the farmer's girls
（his bulging eyes， their chicken legs）
or the mother lurching towards the sink，
a baby quivering in her gnarled
hands. Horror is the company
you keep when shades are drawn.
Evil does not reside in cages