the way True’s beaked whales have pockets for their fins

and can tuck them in for efficient movement during diving.

Each speck of cosmic dust has an eye like a tropical cyclone,

distinctive the way snowflakes have their own fragile patterns,

which feel nearly human to those who gravitate

toward tender melting things.

Most everything feels human

to a human. Art is about something the way a cat

is about the house, said Allen Grossman, wise poet

of the personal. His feelings are about us All, the way a street light

in Italy is about a drinking fountain under a tree in Milwaukee.

Nick Cave uses buttons and plastic and faux fur,

says his sculptural work is like a second skin that hides gender, race, class.

All our colors named to explain ourselves to our selves. My feelings—

red in tooth and claw— for this primate in a tiny glass cage

who has been experimented on, are hanging all over

my mind in tufts and blisters the way the fur,

and the skin underneath the fur, is hanging all over

this creature’s body. His penis is raw with open sores.

We see him considering the lens of the camera,

and then the person filming— won’t you help me?

And then more videos pop up on my laptop, more

tortured animals, their horns torn off, their abdomens knifed—

insides pulsing— the storming eyes ceaseless, cochineal.