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And this section
ends with a poem I call Counterpoint.

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I was not ready for this
world, nor will I ever

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be, but came an infant
periled by my mother,

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see, and crying piteously.

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Before my father's sword,
his heavy voice of thunder,

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his cloud hung fiery eyes,
I ran, a living blunder.

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After the hawkers cry
desiring to be shared,

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I hid among the flies.

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Myself became the
fruit and vendor.

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I began to sing, mocking the
caged birds I made my offering.

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Sweet cream and curds.

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Oh, who will have me?

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Who will have me?

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And close upon my words,
"I will", said poverty.

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