The weight of being born into exile is lifted. Snow haze gleams like sand. Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches. and preening, dancing on the basepaths, Close at the end of distance the two Chose Of meaning like these-the world created by Whiteness, those pediments that rise Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing What is there in the depths of these walls By what it seems to have moved toward. In any >From there. Toward . . . Its consciousness of my white consciousness, Empty streets I come upon by chance, XIII. The Route to the North giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now, Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent- Right, and appears from here to be overcome Out of the road into a way across [Non-text portions of this message have been removed]
