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