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Portrait #1

The poet enters
the ring,
 
announces: “This is a vowel.
This is a consonant.”
 
His god, the alphabet, prays
racked with pain.
 
A coliseum melodrama
we’re not wanting
 
to watch.  Vowels
a-e-i-o-u
 
+ sometimes
  y.
 
The picadors
illiterate, 
 
language,
like death
 
the privilege
of the matador.
 

 

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