There is a prison in south California
where all known or suspected poets
are chained to a wall.
I escaped to the Cascades with poems and rain.
News reaches me of the horror there.
In each cell just out of arms reach
there is a table, a pencil,
a piece of paper, a chair.
L.E. Cornelison. I live one mile from Snoqualmie Falls and have been widely published. I ride bus 213 to Seattle.
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