tapirs are complex minions of diligence.
the way they go about on low-down legs
with their much too dainty hooves -
parading penumbral beasts, that send
gravity into a measured sway.
their tracks are surely indiscreet patterns
where those in the know
can decipher their only joy -
proceeding to mate with the utmost politeness.
but their voice, we are told, is a feeble zizuzizu
not unlike the squeaking of suspension coils.
sunday, get out of bed and off to the museum
where behind glass their wired skeletons
wait for the second lesson:
today the animals will learn from me
what it means to be anguished
but agile nonetheless.

Translation: Nicholas Grindell