Writing as mourning-
and I could just let my tears fall 
into the lake. Writing as persuasion, 
coercion, argument, complaint.
     Now that I write for myself
I find I have two feet, one tongue,
a number of days and so many
questions coming into being.
     I should be forgiven for mistaking
the poet as possessing three eyes
all the better to see with;
a mysterious voice whispering in the ear,
perhaps Socrates' daimon;
a ghost's ability to penetrate walls
     and a sea of words more infinite than the pacific-
all desparate to be plashed, by accident or design,
into a floating coconut which I find to be
the best description of my skull in this context.