Jars of gelid fetuses floating
in yellow formaldehyde, flecked
debris, bouyant stars swirling
in glass. Overhead, through the skylight,
the February sun, lifeless on marble.
These samples, this display of ontogeny,
pellucid embryos, ghost eyes staring
out from squid brains, when we
enter the museum we feel their cold
eternal eyes like stars, their banality
pentrates our eighth grade souls.
We know we must return to the bus
and sit behind the distorted glass
and stare out on the dirty snow
the depression of Michigan
with eyes no different than
those preserved in the children
interrupted and preserved here.
No philosophy or science
will save us from the world outside,
we have smelt decay and truth
among the artifacts and relics
and we are ready to return
to our lives.
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