I’ve been feeling desperate. Hungry. Looking for words. 

I want to write.

 All around my house. All around my city. Picking up crumbs. Thrown away phrases.

Street language.

Discarding old thoughts. Old feelings.

I don’t want to write about pain. 

Chronic physical pain. 

Let’s not talk ourselves

Into a rut. 

I’m finding new things everyday. New ways to live,

Which are actually very old.

I can’t help when the mail comes.

When news gets to my little street off the Hudson.

Or when I’m still long enough to hear the wind. 


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