If you could be quiet hang your beliefs by the door sit down beside this poem that leans in to whisper: “right now at this very moment even before I finish this sentence someone is dying unjustly, or hungry, or is not you— privy to these squiggles I form with my mouth, because reading is as alien to them as poverty is to you, there is something terribly wrong and absurd about this life.”
If you think about this too hard, like I do…sometimes, breathing becomes awkward.