Oh, the lifetimes it will live!

 

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?