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by Michael T. Smith He said a word unkindly, and I laughed a little bit, honesty being a disservice to the likes of him and it. He said a word so unripe: le mot juste, it wasn’t so, but pretended for his benefit not one sense of me did know. He said a word ungodly, and my knee it had foresight to genuflect before he clasped it— a trick it was of quick sleight. He said a word unbridled, let loose from out the mind’s cave— its frigidness making my desire shiver to its very nave . He said a word unbuttoned, and I laughed a li’l further— he being one to excise my syllables, t’was murther. He said a word unsettled in quiddity of it all, and within his eyesight I saw— of man—that eternal Fall. He said a word unwanted, and I fell into that gan— “ha-ha” being a synecdoche for th’ lull history of man. Copyright 2019. All rights reserved.
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