memory's slow will

As day moves its course
through drifting marks 
intended to class
and to organize,
divide and define
our fits and starts: we wake
to a sense we cannot cognize.  

As day moves its course,
inexorably shorn 
of distinguishing features
in weeks and years, 
decreasing distinction
of moments and months, 
the moment is now:
come bed your fears. 

But we don't know how, 
so we'll never know when. 
It's time now to wake, or 
to sleep again. To eat 
all our dreams, oldest-first 
and complain of the stale 
in the bread, and the mold
someone broke, long before
we were born - so that when 
we grew up, we could find 
all that fits in one's head 

To explain, understand 
and defend why we'll have
to be dead.