Others have-- let's see.
Looking for the poem called "Prurient."
"Prurient."
Suppose the past could be surprised.
Like Pompeii, the morning after.
The uncomposed dead.
Their pets, heraldic in duty to habit.
Uneaten food in its batter of lava.
Is any human instant true as museums imply?
Allegiance to the dead and their belongings.
What puzzle would we leave if now, just
now, some vast disaster snuffed us all?
But left our interrupted daily lives, half open drawers.
That's what the curse of the mummy is.
That we break our privacy with pounding hearts
and find another ignorance like a doll inside a doll.
I can't let you in, a haggard voice explains.
The place is haunted.
We ask, by whom?
The voice replies, by you.
And then we go.