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.”