When the dead arise, I think it's possible
that for a long time they don't understand they have been dead;
that they pick uncertainly at the cerements,
and murmur, "I wonder why I ever thought
I looked good in these?" They rub
the sleep of centuries from their eyes,
and a dusty cough wracks them. "This room,"
they say, dangling their rusty knees
over the coffin gunwale, gazing about the bonehouse,
"this room is a little dark and musty. I think--"
but they have to pause a while,
fretting their hands together, getting the feeling back,
"--I think maybe more cheerful curtains,
that let in a bit more light."