At Fulton Cemetery 

Moss filled inscriptions, spring time,

the bareness broken by a fertile

ground, common grackles foraging

their worms, The Conqueror Worm...,

as was said before so I can say again

through meanderings of my own 

within this middle age of life, mild

mundanity with a hint of obliviousness,

that dull momentum of city traffic,

while somehow, swift brevity praised

with hands I  build for an assured

sanctity of transience, extending

some hours where they'll provide

access for a few new memories,

to create off what has been made

before its all spent back down into 

the freedom of specious eternity,

which won't be known but digested

by what's been polished, fragrant,

born in thousandths with a ripe sun.