Mummy

Linen moved in the tomb where no wind was. A mummy rose, wrapped, the old curse in the cloth, dust falling from a hand that had not been a hand for a long time. People who opened that door did not finish the breath they had started. They carried a mummy gift of dry air. It shows again in mummy playing cards that smell of the closed place, in a mummy notebook whose page takes the pencil as if through cloth, in a mummy postcard of the wrap and the dark stair. The door is shut again. The wrap does not stay still.