This is my nearly morning exercise: not poetry, but verse, written one-hand- ed on the bog. Pound said that everyone from seventeen to twenty-three tries to write poetry. No: has to. A gland perhaps, or similar. Only the mun- dane care of tools keeps real writers at it when the red gush of inspiration’s gone. Trying not to gush, I push my pencil through broken metre, infinitely split meanings; keep it sharp for when the one surge of truth demands strong words to cancel all those mediocre pages. This wasn’t it. I’ve sat here once again, producing shit.