<p> Thrill of a Romance </p> <p> It's different when you have hiccups. <br> Everything is—so many glad hands competing <br> for your attention, a scarf, a puff of soot, <br> or just a blast of silence from a radio. <br> What is it? That's for you to learn <br> to your dismay when, at the end of a long queue <br> in the cafeteria, tray in hand, they tell you the gate closed down <br> after the Second World War. Syracuse was declared capital <br> of a nation in malaise, but the directorate <br> had other, hidden goals. To proclaim logic <br> a casualty of truth was one. <br> </p> <p> Everyone's solitude (and resulting promiscuity) <br> perfumed the byways of villages we had thought civilized. <br> I saw you waiting for a streetcar and pressed forward. <br> Alas, you were only a child in armor. Now when ribald toasts <br> sail round a table too fair laid out, why the consequences <br> are only dust, disease and old age. Pleasant memories <br> are just that. So I channel whatever <br> into my contingency, a vein of mercury <br> that keeps breaking out, higher up, more on time <br> every time. Dirndls spotted with obsolete flowers, <br> worn in the city again, promote open discussion.<br> </p>