At the Agassiz Museum.
We stagger in the waning afternoon
past the nervous system of the armadillo,
the camouflage in the nesting habits of the loon.
Off there in the corner case, an old baboon
reaches his hairy arms as if to embrace the naked bulb
that lights his leather face.
My child, my child, the afternoon is slow.
The backbone of the sperm whale hung aloft
swims through the darkening air.
And here, beneath the cachalot,
a Bengal tiger with fading stripes,
having eaten 11 den galley, bears
his teeth between broken whiskers and stands stuffed.