Skin Poem by James Mills

This grass.
This grass will pass,
silken,
to new generations.
My graceful space will fill
shining bodies with my genes.

Between love and death and future
some garbled link, some bones,
will survive the tons of time.
They'll test my claws,
my laws of instinct.
My time will be falsely remembered.

Beauty survives.

My skin.
My skin will inundate.
They'll peer at that bright surface
and poeticise.
Beauty survives,
scanned in my horizon.

My hair tells my disguise,
not my intention.