To One Skeleton in One Indian Mound

At noon the sun like one more engine roared overhead, and all we amateurs at spades crossed our broad blades in the heat in the hurry to dig up and hoard, but now … all your awry bones and a round skull full of cobweb thought unclock my day, and the dig’s quarrel of shovels disappears. Let the others save and save their bones against the dozers bulling their way here and there tomorrow to the tick. My thin friend, I could outsit America, spinning a headful of those subtle threads, and in a jumble in the next time’s mound crook my head-house a thousand years around the nebulae of webs, thinking on the spinner’s work of stars.

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