To My Bones

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