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At the Agassiz Museum.

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We stagger in the
waning afternoon

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past the nervous system
of the armadillo,

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the camouflage in the
nesting habits of the loon.

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Off there in the corner
case, an old baboon

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reaches his hairy arms as
if to embrace the naked bulb

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that lights his leather face.

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My child, my child,
the afternoon is slow.

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The backbone of the
sperm whale hung aloft

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swims through the darkening air.

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And here, beneath
the cachalot,

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a Bengal tiger with
fading stripes,

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having eaten 11
den galley, bears

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his teeth between broken
whiskers and stands stuffed.

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