I write a poem a day sometimes two
I speak to a neighbor’s parakeet
Pull books at random from their shelves
No one is in charge no locksmith
I do not know my maker
My voice is a mystery
This life is a ship board affair—
Radio signals come
Turn eighty degrees left
Reduce speed
Wrack your memory
For what you suspect occurred
At this longitude
I own a notebook
Of mid-ocean static
From simply crossing a room
Planet of the Blind 