And I'll end with a short poem.
By what authority as in the swollen rhetoric of exactly
who's enabling self am I next to you, a gross paper effigy?
When we wake to the sober play of aimless bodies,
like and unlike, razor burn and drawl, and daybreak now
near the south tower.
Or when, at the sound of this tone,
how a new regimen of clipped, tap,
and long notes pressed against our wet embassy
trickled, shoulder length, in the tight hush of what
we know about the difference between recessive fade,
when pleasure sours and the sore repetition of a song.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]