Come on now Influenza,
Lets me and you take a walk outside.
I’ll show you fishes slipping through
Slices of stone, you wouldn’t believe
How small and silver-quick
Such things can be.

Come now, Influenza.
Your Spanish hands are small and hard
Against my aging fingernails.
I see you, and we know (don’t we?)
That your greatest work, like mine
Has long since past so

Come here, fallen star,
They may be scratching out your name
On slate again, but we all know
It’s not the same
As your great summer
Of Nineteen-Nineteen

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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