I like to watch the jibóia take the sun      in the Emilio Goeldi Museum. They have tree branches for props,           a little grass, some dirt-brown murky water.      They don’t do much. They are draped across each other           like much-chewed cigars; they never exercise.      Their stippled skin is an amazing thing: it glides                and sizzles under the bone-white glare of noon,           and the school children tire of it easily, but I don’t. I would wish for such skin, such muscle                     so much careless grace.      I would see my old selves sloughed off as painlessly—                good-bye to the sweet girl at two in blue sundress                     and little blue shoes, so long                     to the furious teenager who refused to rise                to this or any occasion.