Memory Is a Poor Monument

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is a poor monument 
to the events of life that mean so much
the valued things of existence
these things brush gently
possibly with a kiss 
leaving a shudder 
a sense of something
or only goose-bumps

Other events touch with the same 
gentle casualness
but happen to brush 
against a situation like wet concrete
leaving a lasting impression 
of life surprised
and captured in death 
like amber containing a small insect

This particular event,
casual as it is,
assumes an importance 
beyond life itself
it replaces the individual 
who becomes the dying man
complete with microscopic maggots of the flesh
all that was the multitude of life
the surplus of moments 
the speed of life 
the blurriness of life
comes up fast against its boundary
and the conception of death
fucks the mind
and lasts 
like a steel monument

The cause of death lasts in the mind 
past life fades 
into a poorly remembered 
first dream of the night
somehow it did happen
but some things negate life
what was once flowing life
turns inward and stagnates
so that the self regrets its own preconditions
and now tastes bitter
having limited its own existence

The slowly dying man,
the infected man
(pleasure so closely linked to death)
wastes away at a young age 
cause of death: young age
he is bones and skin 
he is bones and skin
he is bones and skin
the flesh so poor a weapon