I don't recall my hands looking so delicate.
They used to be brawn-built for heavy groping,
the reaching of the aims of man in heat.
My hands look even of a different hue
as if of burnished copper. Maybe so long
having worked the red Georgia dirt.
These hands begin to resemble yours.
Is this what the years have wrought? Your face
a little blacker; my neck a whole lot redder,
our skulls molded to the nuptial pillow,
fixed to the off and on vow of death do us part,
our chats, nothing out of the ordinary.
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