How shall I climb
When the ladder
Is not mine?
How shall I reach
Thine ear
When such is not my speech?
How shall I engender
Words
When diction, close,
In other bosoms sleep?
I am a madhouse
Closed to the weeping
I am a tempest
Whose eye is not his
I am a whisper of a Man
I cannot know
I attempt faultless
Somersaults
In lands not my own
I am anxious
In the doing
I am unfree
In all I see
I mouth and bend
The golden quill of greatness
I mourn the pen
That has written
Both future and present lines
Marking all the neat bottles of ink
That will never be mine
Either to write with
Or to be
