Tate Britain


We follow the numbers and the lines
to a room where a sheep lives in
a formaldehyde solution.

There are butterflies nailed to the wall
their wings blue as the sea.

So there is more in the world that I don't understand.
In every room there are people taking pictures
of a painting.

We stop at where Ophelia is about to drown
between the wavy flowers and the green.

You say that it's just like a fairytale,
but I'm closer to the water. I point to the
woman who without her camera doesn't know

how to look and unfold a now never-to-
be-fold-again map. This Museum

has at least forty five rooms.
When you shove me over the threshold
there is nothing you recognize.