My black face fades，

    hiding inside the black granite¹.

    I said I wouldn't，

    dammit： No tears.

    I'm stone. I'm flesh.

    My clouded reflection eyes me

    like a bird of prey²， the profile of night

    slanted³ against morning. I turn

    this way——the stone lets me go.

    I turn that way——I'm inside

    the Vietnam Veterans Memorial

    again， depending on the light

    to make a difference.

    I go down the 58，022 names，

    half-expecting to find

    my own in letters like smoke.

    I touch the name Andrew Johnson；

    I see the booby trap's white flash.

    Names shimmer⁴ on a woman's blouse

    but when she walks away

    the names stay on the wall.

    Brushstrokes flash， a red bird's

    wings cutting across my stare.

    The sky. A plane in the sky.

    A white vet's image floats

    closer to me， then his pale eyes

    look through mine. I'm a window.

    He's lost his right arm

    inside the stone. In the black mirror

    a woman's trying to erase⁵ names：

    No， she's brushing a boy's hair.

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