Nowhere is it the same place as yesterday.

None of us is the same person as yesterday.

We finally die from the exhaustion of becoming.

This downward cellular jubilance is shared

by the wind, bugs, birds, bears and rivers,

and perhaps the black holes in galactic space

where our souls will all be gathered in an invisible

thimble of antimatter. But we're getting ahead of ourselves.

Yes, trees wear out as the wattles under my chin

grow, the wrinkled hands that tried to strangle

a wife beater in New York City in 1957.

We whirl with the earth, catching our breath

as someone else, our soft brains ill-trained

except to watch ourselves disappear into the distance.

Still, we love to make music of this puzzle.