The Bankruptcy of Hope

It is not the serpent that woos us in the garden today...

The vault of hope has been discovered—
the bodies of the dreamers
laid head to foot in a ring
around a tree of bones.

Books are piled in cairns,
every tome thrown on the heap
once upon a time,
each page rotting
happily ever after.

The foxes and the crows
have lost their way here,
took their feed here,
filled their bellies on the stones
of wish-i-mays,
howled in hunger after meals
of maybe-soon.

Everything comes here
to wish on the sunrise,
pray to the sunset,
dance wild and naked
under the moon.

But they find the dawn is clammy,
the evening alive with biting flies,
the shadows of the moon
as devious and false as

the promises of
hope itself.