And this is the final poem that I'll read.
Thank you all very much.
"Chinese Dream Number 14."
Race, friends, is boring.
Everyone says so.
Hashtag All Lives Matter, the channel turns.
We ourselves live and turn.
And moreover, the TV told me yesterday, unendingly,
ever to talk about race means you have no inner resources.
I conclude now I have no inner resources, because all I see
is race.
People have race.
Literature has race, especially great literature.
Henry has race, with his blacks and whites, made up
as his feelings about love and sex and art, which have race.
And our social ills and sin in Chinese drag
are somehow a dog that's eaten itself,
and its tail miserably remains as our mirror, bone,
or breaker, heaving on tide: us, flag.
Thank you all very much.