An Arrangement of Skin

The taxidermist dreams about

shoveling snow.  

His eyes, and the drawer full

of glass eyes, watch

the snow spill outside the window,

collecting on the driveway

while hides tan in the kitchen,

while tea steeps the smell

of umber heating in a sauce pan.

He has a dog the color of pine,

and he wonders what

the inside of her skin looks like.

He passes time

dismantling a field mouse

whose tail he presses

in the pages of a book.

That skin is watery thin

like gossamer. Through it,

he can see the light in the room

get smaller as the snow

whitens where the sun falls.