Somewhere, the linen still drips, and

Tiny jungles long since slipped

Spinning, soaked, a little vortex

That carries gutters out, away

From ledges where parts still sit

And talk of dancing women.

There’s moments, caught in sand up there

Burned to glass, new shapes, old hair

Bulbous, wet and hanging

From the blowpipes of a year

That a part of me is straining

To turn into a cup, again.

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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