Dementia Poem by Hans Ostrom

He remembers language
but not his memory. He speaks
of what he sees. He scratches
his knees. One straggling memory
wanders by, covered with soot
from that burnt whole life.
To the memory he says hello,
does not recall why he said
hello to this... this? He doesn't
remember scratching his knees.
He speaks. He sees. He listens
to speaking he speaks. It does not
interest him. This does:
an aroma. Of? He falls asleep
in front of what he sees. Outside
his sleep we exchange what
we remember of his memory
using some of the language
he used to use to recall.