graveWhen 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?

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