I know best the stink of mammoth
Heaps of muscle steeped in musk,
Riot of lice who in the cold
Cleave to the warmth of flesh

The tomb of its bowels
Giving groaning voice to the night

Red sap binding my fingers, I hear
Cold clatter of freed carpals
Vertebrae like yellow wood
But always I am pulled to the singularity of one eye,
Where our essential kinship is spoken
As the vessels which nourished it whither