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1. Fossils: Carnegie Museum of Natural History

 

Bodies in a bas-relief, as though laminated

In limestone, the dragonflies slant

On their familiar stalks—

                                          little sticks of incense,

Wings paired and rounded like maple seeds.

 

I return again to their stillness, to shelved

Bodies held in gestures fragile and momentary

As light, the ribbed fall of shadows on a wall.

 

In the silence of museums I marvel

At what takes shape in darkness left undisturbed

In the drift of stone, at pale slabs clean

As plaster where the dust has been kept whole,

Pressed in rifted plates.

                                       I come back

To ridged anatomies, embossments of chalk,

The slow, mineral flowerings of time into bone.

 

 

2. Diorama, Polar World: Wyckoff Hall of Arctic Life

 

In a white world whose shapes are cut

From tusk and soapstone, the breath-laden light,

A kind of tableau vivant:

                                          the bone tip

Of this harpoon aimed inches above the ice,

Hasped with thong to the long shaft

And the hunter behind it, hardly more still

Than he'd be for real, frozen there, watching

For signs of the ascending seal.

                                             

Think of it sleeking its way into the flame-blue cup

Of the blow-hole only to be hauled

Onto the floe—dead center of an eruption

Breaking against the wheeling gulls

And frenzy of the sled dogs—

                                                  its risen body

Opened up and rummaged like the sea's.

 

 

3. Dermestid Beetles, Section of Invertebrate Zoology

 

Insects, not angels, on the heads of pins,

Bees frowzy in black honey, drowsing

In their radiator combs, while here, sealed

In paired terrariums, the resurrection

Of the body has begun:

                                       bones stripped down

In no time to the remnant tufts

Of fur and jerky, unhinged sockets, ruddled cups.

All in that massed, seething exfoliation.

 

They'd devour the building if they could,

Unhousing larvae from the marrow.

They'd convey the world to light, little lords

Of the underlife, trephining their disks of bone,

 

Or tumble across each other as if spawned

From matter, their teeth the teeth of cogs.

 

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