The truth of the matter:
We bear diminished resemblance
to our wedding-day selves.
We used to puzzle over the noses,
now long and chins, now puckered
of those soft-cheeked, sepia lovebirds
enthroned above the piano.
Now we know the shape
of slow metamorphosis: My scalp,
grown brighter. These mornings,
steeper. Our asymmetries, thrown
into cubist relief. But we see now
that enduring beauty
is beyond the seen, embedded
in the known – and I know you,
am braided in your hair, tattooed
on the cradle of your hipbones, rooted
in this ground we fought over,
wept for – a feral, weed-stricken patch
in our spring, now level, coffee-black,
steadfast in winter.