Hazel Are My Lady’s Eyes

Hazel are my lady’s eyes,
with waves and waves of green—
gold leaf overlaid with green moiré.
Brothers, what’s the story?
For nine years our hands haven’t touched:
I got old here,
she there.

My girl, your thick white neck is lined,
but we can’t possibly get old
—we need another term for sagging flesh—
because people are old
only if they love no one but themselves.