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.

 

The person who I think resides

in the hairy shadows,

in the small tufts of black

and odd straggly left behind ginger,

is not surely the same

person who first grew a moustache to

cover up his insecurity, pencil line,

fine tread, bottom lipped quivering,

that person died long ago in another’s arms…

the only trace of memory is the eyes,

seen too much, herded in clover,

failed to stop at the right point

and with brakes slamming shut

on Highway Nine,

the crevice was narrowly avoided, but

was it worth losing all I was, now

I can no longer see who I am.

Ian D. Hall 2016