In my sleep it rips through

my meagre skin

throws off the red bandage of the flesh

and goes strolling through the room

my monument a little incomplete

one can be prodigal

with tears and blood

what will endure here the longest

must be thoughtfully provided for

better (than with a priest’s dry finger

to the rains which drip from a cloud of sand)

to give one’s monument to the academey

they will prop it up in a glass display case

and in Latin they will pray before

the little altar made from an os frontalis

they will reckon the bones and surfaces

they will not forget not overlook

happily I will give my color of eyes

pattern of nails and curve of eyelids

I the perfectly objective

made from white crystals of anatomy

can for thoughts

heart cage

bony pile

and two shins

you my little monument not quite complete