“I think I’ve been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I’m always the victim ... but no longer!”

Watch out for power
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.

Perhaps the earth is floating,
I do not know.
Perhaps the stars are little paper cutups

From the sea came a hand,
ignorant as a penny,
troubled with the salt of its mother,