Down the Years
(for old couples)
 
Your leaves, dear 
face, hair flung 
by snow-laden wind down 
the years, your leaves
grown brown, crumbling, 

like the skin, old 
papyrus, stretched across 
my knuckles, dappled 
and seamed by 
the relentless, time-time-time. 


 

​​
De Gustibus Non Disputandum Est
 

that chin is not a pier
where boats tie up
 
it is a charming sign
of a loved one's determination
 
those ears aren't satellite dishes
for a neighborhood's television sets
 
they are an amusing flaw which gives
humanity to an otherwise perfect face
 
and that stomach which blocks
vision of the feet
 
is actually a sign that its owner
is rooted in the real world
 
strange others are too blind
to see these truths