so much as in dreams.

    Our giant is not so tall，

    our lizard¹ boy merely flaunts²

    crusty skin- not his fault

    they keep him in a crate³

    and bathe him maybe once a week.

    When folks scream or clutch their hair

    and poke⁴ 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 bulging⁵ 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 drawn⁶.

    Evil does not reside in cages