Sonnet #346

 These concrete shells are made of bones

All these cities, grand and tall, the lime

inside the mixture is the mess of time

where seashells settled ages before Rome

mixed their dessications with the ash 

of death, volcano wheezing, and stirred into

a city. We sit on dead trees. We're piled onto

a pavement that is driving overpasses

Where dead sea creatures settled down

and the falling water washed them clean

where oil is removed from broken soil, drowned

in some disastrous flood, stone pressed scream

until all the death oozes out of them, so we drive

Our mezzanines of crushed cemetery lives