I am the black where all one meets is white;
I peer from textured shadow, still afraid
Of the swift staccato stalactite
That shatters darker mirrors I have made.
I am the word you whisper to your Self;
I am the Self when self is overthrown;
I dwell within that silent, shadowed shelf
That trembles at the pulsing of the bone.
If you would find me, steal into my cave
And lose yourself, though I will not be found.
If you would lose me, hide within your grave—
Yet I live on, when you are underground.
I am the king that you have never seen;
I am the kin that leaves the glass unclean.
(1st place, Walt Whitman Poetry Competition, Camden, NJ, 1982)