Dissection Poem by Jan Sand

What hookwords must I fashion
To jam into the guts of my mind
And so, with straining tendons
Pull out the flowers and
The black slime creatures
So I may examine my own biology?
These soft machines are tenacious,
Secretive, clever as chameleons
And elusive as eels. What would I see
If I could lay them out in white enamel trays?
And, more to the point, what would do
The looking? I suspect, along with Plato,
I am mere shadows that race through
The soft pulses of the machineries
Of the dynamics of my energies,
Like a seagull zooming inbetween
The valleys of a rolling sea.