This Is the Work of Memory When You Are about to Die

Unsystematic, idiosyncratic, serendipitous
Events are all your life consisted of, all life consists of now.

In the middle of early morning dreams of murky failure
You rise, gills laboring, trying to surface through memories

Terrible and insubstantial as early morning air.
You push them aside, those clutching gasps that wish dreams, forget.

It's okay. You have been reassembled from nothing
Once again. You open your eyes with another gasp.

The fiction of you reassembles, the workshop
Of memory below the photic zone churns up

Semirandom, crystallized aspects of you.
You remember yourself, recount your events.

You've no idea if all of them are there,
But too many of them remain to count.

It's okay. It's another day. You
Have to remember enough to live,

Remember those thoughts still in play,
Whatever's new about today.

The music you hear whispers
That a world goes on out there,

That there's nothing in here,
That there's nothing to fear,

That more events come,
That nothing's undone,

That you're aware,
You hear music,

You don't know
What kind, nor

From where.
Never's

Your
Air.