I have no idea who lives

underneath the beard,

I haven’t seen their face

for a generation,

a third of their life,

I haven’t had the pleasure

of getting to see the craggy lines appear

on fermenting grey skin

except underneath the eyes

which have become sterile,

magnified and indifferent

to everything besides love;

but what need is there of love

when you are hiding

the kiss beneath a mop of underside hair

that keeps your chin warm

in winter.