If I could tender an excess wager
on his forearm floss and skin,
or stake the azure scenics of her eyes
against the beret he rested in,
and win or lose, clasp them hard to me again...
If I could ingest the soprano of his voice,
eat it whole —— couched in soft folds of throat,
or pocket the airborne teeth of her grin
as spread she rises toward the ceilin'...
Or yield up four small palms of fat
stolen from the slapping game we're at,
or breathe just-washed hair as my daily dose of oxygen...
Escort flying babies, those celestial pilots
over star-vaulted chambers of night ——
and yet own up to such a heart
impugned by infant blight,
If I could commit these crimes and worse...
I’d never seek recourse in verse.
—— Albert Cassorla, January 31, 1984