The turquoise denim jacket
Has an end of sleeve detail
Which I didn’t notice before
With your arm hung straight
The sleeve-end weight
Causes it to hang plumb
It is the right hand, and arm
Which I study
Caught at first by the sparkle
Of the semi-precious stone
In the ring
On your third finger
It is not a young hand
Yet not so obviously old
As mine, nevertheless
It has seen toil; the sort of toil
Which I was once so famous for
It became an obsession, almost
To fund a just beyond lifestyle
To buy immeasurable presents
Up to almost the final departure
