Affair by Michael T. Smith

We kissed under the guillotine,
hoping for something lean, 
and Nyx watching the union
of our two lips lying, jealously–

“Our excuse makes a solid ground,”
she said, tearing at her nylon grey. 
“The ground?”  I replied,
“We ought to just die and call it a day.”

We skipped along like hooligans, 
knowing something the rest 
of the world did not, saying
“ancips” and other Latin words that rot.

I thought. She smiled,
not knowing geometry. 
“But I forgive you,” I said
to the man in the moon, and she.

I held her hand with a feeling
of anger. “Your fetters 
got a hold of me.” She replied,  
but I only heard her thick argot.

“They’re out of style this year,”
I said, opening a catalogue.
I only like to look at clothes
I won’t wear–it uses time’s log well,

As does the affair, which is
blessed by the broken hand
of a cheap Rabelais
crossing himself out of season, and–

“I’d have known you better
if you didn’t look at me,” she said.
“But I’ll only do that,” 
I interrupted, “once you’re dead.”

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