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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