To My Bones

In my sleep it rips throughmy meagre skinthrows off the red bandage of the fleshand goes strolling through the roommy monument a little incompleteone can be prodigalwith tears and bloodwhat will endure here the longestmust be thoughtfully provided forbetter (than with a priest's dry fingerto the rains which drip from a cloud of sand)to give one's monument to the academeythey will prop it up in a glass display caseand in Latin they will pray beforethe little altar made from an os frontalisthey will reckon the bones and surfacesthey will not forget not overlookhappily I will give my color of eyespattern of nails and curve of eyelidsI the perfectly objectivemade from white crystals of anatomycan for thoughtsheart cagebony pileand two shinsyou my little monument not quite complete