Random (II)

call chore

how we’ve come
to learn poetry as
pain. as violence. as
injury. a place to tuck
our stalding. an
open house. to
rent. to vent. a
place where we
find our exile. and
love our lack. and
admire our wounds. and
start our own fires. and
consume ourselves. and

it begins with Confucius. and
Shakespeare. and Edgar. and Frost.
and Gordimer. and me. hiding
behind myself. and
being. becoming
too hard. too soft.
too tired. too weak.
too strong. too young.
too old. too trimmed.
one poem at a time

leonell echa