On this, the wedding day,
of my oldest friend
joy, full to bursting, resolves in his gestures
this woman, his Wife
straight and curved as a flute
of champagne
On this day I am reminded
of a semiotician who once
drunkenly observed, of love,
“the other one never waits”
You who are such an authority
on loves, their hollowing,
the fullness and collapse of them,
Will you call me tomorrow after work
and ask me to come be near you?
Will we swap swigs from a bottle of red
and laugh at our stained tongues?
We scatter into pieces, so completely
intermingled
they can only resemble some Unity
quite as immune to loneliness
as the girl from the picture
who tumbles barefoot through the grass
after the ceremony
who, weightless,
never waits
