And the other one, which is addressed to a part of us which
may be more immediately recognizable, which
I hope is so simple that nothing need be said about it,
is a poem called "The Thread."
Unrolling the black thread through the tunnel,
you come to the wide wall of shoes.
The soles standing out in the air you breathe,
crowded from side to side, floor to ceiling, and no names,
and no door, and the bodies stacked before them
like bottles.
Generation upon generation upon generation with their friends,
all the way to the end of the mountain,
the beginning of time, the light of day, the bird.
And you are unrolling the Sybil's song,
that is trying to reach her, beyond your dead.