PROSODY

The perfect measure drums across the line,

but once iambic’s lulled the reader’s ear

the poet slips troches in without your noticing,

the way you sometimes fail to see your love

has shaved his beard or cut her hair. So intimate

their faces, you supply the missing

feature. Then is love a trope for inattention

to the other?  Wrapped up in your fantasy

of two iambic hearts together  on

one line, it takes the double dactyl

of betrayal to jolt you to the fact

he’s substituted one foot for another

her face for yours, to see the couplet’s been

unhooked, you’re standing on the page a single

line.  You hold his discarded jacket

like metonymy. You’ll alliterate with no one

else.  In a state of synesthesia, cadence off,

you bump along, Once an ode, now a limerick.

Once a sonnet, now an elegy of clichés

Join the conversation