swansea museum
camphorated butterflies
pinned in drawers under the stairs
the golden eagle’s entourage stuffed and branched
the welsh kitchen with my mother’s things
swansea china where i wanted to willow word
then the wary staircase
to the mummy and the red lady
down balustraded stairs to
that huge room of huge old books
leathered in a childhood’s wide eyes
breath against the glass cases
the clunk of shoes on wooden floors
and those big doors beneath the pediment
that fell back upon a walk
to wind street bridged and blowing
down all of our yesterdays
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