You were the one who told me what that word meant. A cabinet of curiosities, a wonder room of natural and unnatural history. Inside I met a loris with a toothache who helped me unpin the butterflies from their display. They flooded between the tree trunk ghosts of a rain forest and dragged their feet across the frozen nectar of ashen floristry. I told him of your crooked lateral incisors and of the way my chest feels when I think of you too much. I do not know who they are the scientists, the ethnographers, the map makers. But here we tip out a landscape of their spoils. The butterflies flutter against water, against glass. [Museum]