I cannot tell you
how galling it is
to stand in the museum
and one hundred
taxidermist's touching
brushes and needles and bits of hair
to one hundred
frames behind glass
and all of it
watches you
between wandering pillars
in light that fills your pupils
like soup against the lips
of a flask
and each one
calling button eyed
to hobby knives in working hands
mouths of dust
they're in need of a bit
only a bit
if you could
please, if you would just a sliver
of your tongue.
