And this section ends with a poem I call Counterpoint.
I was not ready for this world, nor will I ever
be, but came an infant periled by my mother,
see, and crying piteously.
Before my father's sword, his heavy voice of thunder,
his cloud hung fiery eyes, I ran, a living blunder.
After the hawkers cry desiring to be shared,
I hid among the flies.
Myself became the fruit and vendor.
I began to sing, mocking the caged birds I made my offering.
Sweet cream and curds.
Oh, who will have me?
Who will have me?
And close upon my words, "I will", said poverty.