Poor old dreary O'Leary...

My mind is shit as I wake.  Have to go rent the car for the trip up to mom.

What are these stones, these bones
Of which I am built...  are they alive
As much as me?
Just as I am, too?
Wise enough men tell me it is so,
That even the atoms of the deepest
thickness of our bones
change themselves out for
Fresh ones,
As if ordering carry out.
New, no need to do dishes.
One more thing we exchange,
in constant flux,
with the world,
the universe, the stardust around us.
But in my hand, even,
along the knuckle,
here they are, old high crags
And mountain tops,
And undersea continental shelves,
Or old plateaus pushed upward, left
There when all else got washed away.