You: cross-continental shifter, coffee stains and creaking beams

Hold afloat your poets lips, your long-fingered hands that flick

Ash into my singing bowl,

Sinking in the corner.

We talk of heirs and graces, and little magics held in stone –

Twenty six symbols dance On paper. Different tongues.

The way you speak your seas

Drags my eyes to yours.

Wake to blue, and twisting smooth. It must be different,

Back home. Warmer; more dust perhaps? And taxi journeys

Full of better advice –

I cannot help it

But to smile at the paths of your ambitions, your will

To be here now, and soon. To drink your glass and

Draw your ashes, with me,

Here, on a seat, in a sinking room.

About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

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