By Gary Corseri
February 14, 2009
My wife, my lover, my mate, my friend,
Till death do us part (or the heart
Finds an escape clause)-inseparable as
My own self’s clone (where I extrude, though,
You invert), think you nothing without me (and me
Even more nothing without you).
Think we are one living pulse, one beat
Of the Eternal Beatnik. In all the hoary annals
And canals-we sing singularly.
We are je ne sais quoi and sine qua non.
We are what we are-only more so.
Let me not volley your praises to the sun.
Let me not whisper the shadow of your namecard.
I have your number at number.com.
I lie upon my chocolate escutcheon
Sighing the impossible, unwavering love-note
That manages somehow never to screech,
Beseaching in nooks and crannies and fields,
Finding you somehow year after year
Dappled and dewy in the great melange.
Gary Corseri has posted/published his work at hundreds of venues, including Dandelion Salad. His books include the literary anthology, Manifestations (edited) and the novel, Holy Grail, Holy Grail. Associate Editor of Cyrano’s Journal Online, he can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org.