Melt

It's the kind of sandwich that is supposedly better because its bread is heat-dried.
Cheese is implied.
Goo is an intended result.
If you thought my faux-etry was irritatingly cryptic before.
Watch out for fragments.
Shrapnel can damage more at once and as effectively toward mortality.

Salvador Dali, I was told, meant The Persistence of Memory to be about impotence. The reference cited here does not agree. But I only skimmed it.

Float above the innuendo and stick with the present.
Past things are so Proustian and painful.
Death, or severance, perhaps is merciful. When there is no chance to re-encounter, there is peace.
I can't tell you what I mean (no, no one is impotent in that sense around here; I also was told that Dali was ridiculously in love with his wife, Gala, who was ten years his senior, that she served as his model and muse, that they had an open marriage and he worried about keeping his hold on her).
Well.
Nothing poetic about that.

Persistence of memory indeed.
An ache I could not destroy with three hours of back-bending plant-pulling, blood-drawing thorn-chopping, rather tedious brick-moving, and stomach-crunching push-mowing (through a foot of zesty thick zoysia grass in the sun of the back yard).
Oh, I am so weary of the four-hour night.

My memory of late has no anchors.
I can't distinguish individual ones in order to call up mundane sought details ___ what time I worked or what I had to eat.
Little food should be easy to recall.
Stick with the present.
The portal to parallel.
Yes ___ that is the blank.
Is open for another day.
Ignore.

But I was "so happy."

But I've been happy anyway.
Lack of sleep.
Lack of food.
Lack of money.
Lack of time.
And one more.