When the Grave is my final resting Bed
A fine Closet for my leathery Clothes;
What shall some future Gravedigger have said
Upon Inspection ‘midst this Clay & Bones?
Exacting Instruments will test & date;
Some Surgeon will demonstrate a Profile;
Tongs will grasp, Tapes will measure, Blades will grate,
Amid bloodless Chords, gone mute, & sweet Bile.
These toothed Nibs must forsake an angry Bite
At this Pickpocket. Rummage Thief, defile!–
I–who spun the wide-eyed Day; black-eyed Night.
Left in this musty Bed to dream awhile.
In what old Pocket, Furrow, Specimen,
Rings the Echoes of Family, Lover, Friend?