I get that all flesh is grass, quite apart
from the lofty meanings of transience
I get it the green that sprouts must also dry
but inside my head, deep down inside my heart
there’s a rejection of both faith and science
the decrees whatever blooms must also die.
Spare me the lectures, I’ve heard all that before -
my flesh is the grass and the herbivore.
Yes it dies and no it doesn’t, lives beyond
many lifetimes and treads the grass it’s made of,
how do you measure its lifespan as finite? –
make it fit into words to correspond
exactly as given, sans leeway and love,
demarcate its death and its depth and height?