WEBVTT

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Others have-- let's see.

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Looking for the poem
called "Prurient."

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"Prurient."

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Suppose the past
could be surprised.

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Like Pompeii, the morning after.

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The uncomposed dead.

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Their pets, heraldic
in duty to habit.

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Uneaten food in
its batter of lava.

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Is any human instant
true as museums imply?

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Allegiance to the dead
and their belongings.

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What puzzle would we
leave if now, just

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now, some vast disaster
snuffed us all?

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But left our interrupted daily
lives, half open drawers.

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That's what the curse
of the mummy is.

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That we break our privacy
with pounding hearts

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and find another ignorance
like a doll inside a doll.

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I can't let you in, a
haggard voice explains.

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The place is haunted.

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We ask, by whom?

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The voice replies, by you.

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And then we go.

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