I'm Trying

So often I sit down here and nothing comes.

My hand is thirsty for the pen, the sound of 

it on the paper is like the rush an addict gets

when he uses.

Or maybe not quite. Definitely cleaner.

but I was saying

Nothing will come though I need to write.

and so you'll get this

ink wasted on the page

or 

short sentences.

like a rush of pigeons above the hotness of a city

wings desperately seeking to escape the crowdedcrampedquarters where death is the postman,

words spilling and tumbling out onto the white pavement,

whitewashed pavement,

hurryingflappingthrashing suddenly change

ashes

imagine a different picture, different but the same.

same place. the smell has changed though.

feathers blow quietly, gently through the streets

and brush at your face as you try to 

sleep on a street corner. up at the sky.

their pinions are desperate no longer.