In the museum the walls are steep;
The daylight rises steaming from the floor,
Flattens to a hard and sharpened band,
And cuts around the edges of the door.
Beyond, the waving fields of wheat extend
As far as the eye can roam
To the horizon where dark figures loom;
The brave heart advances to unmask —
From behind black strips of reflecting chrome —
Only guileless flat-white plaster and ordinary glass.
To the left:
The monumental sculpture of a brush
Of boar bristles, soft to the touch,
Matted down with brown hair
Wound on a pearl shaft
As cloudy as a fingered blade:
The figure of a woman in a fur,
Leaning over the steel balustrade.
At every turn there is another
One of her;
Alternating in the hall are
Woman and fur;
Shadows flicker on the wall
As the pillars revolve;
Scenes in the museum blur;
Faces glow and dissolve
Hot, too hot;
Each coat draped free
Over pale shoulders, the shaggy sleeves reach
Unfastened for the flesh beneath.
“For there are,” says the Professor, such furs as come to life
In the sudden sultriness of a never-heated room;
They sleep as others in the unbroken gloom
Of winter wear and summer cold storage;
But quickened by a rare suffusion
Of lavender, perspiration, and perfume,…
Pelts thicken in air;
Muscles move under the hair;
Rippling backs straighten up and stiffen;
And everywhere there rises from the floor
A towering mass of raging bears
Who rear, bare savage teeth, and with one great roar,
Fall upon the cavities of gore.