ubi sunt

the morning has a new
cloth, the clouds are the blush
of winter
the skyline is old and brushed
by jet exhaust, curling
grey and
gone
by the time I park my car

how they made her up for her casket
with her skin stretched tight
newborn
in every aged person
the shade of sunrise on november

does everyone slide by these tall places
wonder how the world would ever
be built again less
one soul, solid rock?
how 90 years
will have you?