Time and time again, Robert VanderMolen's poems illuminate the cycles of human interaction alongside the slow-moving patterns of nature: "bark just separating / after nine thousand summers." A speaker asks, "Is everything too old or too new?" and the resounding answer throughout Skin is that it's a bit of both. Colorless birds, "a deep sweep of wind," and arrowheads found in a dying red oak all point to fragmented moments that make up what it means to stitch one's life together. "Attentiveness is my best friend," a speaker remarks off-handedly, but this affair with observation is earnest and real.

Skin rewards the reader through a tacit understanding that everything in life is part of something larger that we can't see: the endless "thoughts that slide / into notice" where "in the chill of privacy / one seeks promise."