I'll read one poem from the first book, the first child.
It's called "We Are Americans Now, We Live in the Tundra."
Today in hazy San Francisco, I face seaward
toward China, a giant begonia--
pink, fragrant, bitten by verdigris and insects.
I sing her a blues song; even a Chinese girl gets the blues,
her reticence is black and blue.
Let's sing about the extinct Bengal tigers,
about giant Pandas--
"Ling Ling loves Xing Xing-- yet we will not mate.
We are not impotent, we are important.
We blame the environment, we blame the zoo!"
What shall we plant for the future?
Bamboo, sassafras, coconut palms?
No!
Legumes, wheat, maize, old swine to milk the new.
We are Americans now, we live in the tundra of the logical,
a sea of cities, a wood of cars.
Farewell my ancestors-- hirsute Taoists, failed scholars,
farewell my wetnurse who feared and loathed the Catholics, who
called out now that the half-men have occupied Canton,
hide your daughters, lock your doors!