[Accoutred as I was plungèd in]

Slippery slope of affects. I wetted
the words, armed to the teeth.
I bled first from the eye, then from

my small heart down. There was a crowd
tapped to nerve, the air fevered, the fitful
clouds turned and turned. A particular

front, a gold-hoard, a going-at-it
with the right dagger. So move to please,
butter their ears, take feeling to fight.

That art flocked.
That multitude was plucked.
The occasion showcased the swank,

put to a palm-greasing, made it tongue to
tongue to tongue among the rats.
Masstige for all. I broke hand

to foot, I measured amiss. No place
for song, for any thing noteworthy.
Thus, the action stymied the form:

the swoop and curve, the cross
and diagonal. Disarmed by all points.
The cause was the blame.

I ran myself through.

Copyright © 2007 Emily Rosko All rights reserved
from The Laurel Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission