Why I can't sleep

I begin by thinking about my being a very old man; I continue by thinking
each day might be the day where a lump or pain becomes something else,
where the body turns its course against me, and that day will be a day of
division. Or perhaps there will be a night from which there is no
awakening, and this remains deeply unimaginable. I continue by thinking
about my family relationships, how I have to permanently sever ties with
people who were dear to me, simply in order to psychically survive. This
leads to a recent article on post-traumatic stress syndrome, the obdurate
circulation of memories which become a permanent part of the psychic
landscape: something to trip over. After death they're meaningless, just

memorial for my father, day four*

sleep lock leave

http://www.alansondheim.org/memorial239.jpg
http://www.alansondheim.org/memorial246.jpg

the house locking out, locking up,
memorials leave imprints like fossils.
1.shadows of the bed where i slept in my childhood,
2.shadow of the table at the corner of the bed:
the green table where i kept a photograph
of a hydrogen explosion,
of one of the eisenhowers,
of a united nations diplomat.

leaving, last words spoken.
i could walk this house with my eyes closed.
what's left is the phenomenology of space
and its corners eaten by mold.
untoward cocoons ravage the phenomenology.

mold corrals health, circumscribes breath.