Philip Quinn: "Who prepares the body, packages it for the host?"

The Egyptian punches the time clock, pulls the brain out through the nose, 

     helps voyage the dead

What’s left—a crippled mime stored in a painted oblong box

The mummy’s unwrapped empty eyes of love

In the book of the dead, Horus and Anubis form the crew

Put the heart/soul on the scale with the hieroglyphic scars of the past

Somewhere along the wrinkled road map

After miles of caffeinic steering

Fingers reach for the devil’s glove

In the orbiting cathedral

Places wear out from genuflecting knees

Witness the bracket lines around the shellac mouth, the pictograms holding down 

     the motionless chest

No mirror steamed with breath shows the stranger

Entrusted with the cold final touch