How much freedom do Black poets have to write of Nature, silliness, an exciting vacation, the ill-treatment of animals. Oh, I know Black poets write on many subjects, but I’ve never heard that variety at these readings.

Her curves are caving in now, her arches dipping down. Pillaged by both sun and sea, a queen’s corroding crown.

Matchless people in a frenzied crowd gone the way of the living dead. Heart’s lonely cry echoes in faraway conches.