Stands
Stands
Those deer stands
You start to see
When the trees start
Losing their leaves
Were there all summer
Cloaked in the general green
Suffering a crisis
Of purpose
For what are they for
Once the door
Of the season swings closed?
Maybe a boy
Run out of the house
By shouting
Climbs the rungs driven
Dead into the trunk
To sit in the privacy
Of assassins before
The first shot
Rings out
The only tree houses
Of a darker culture