Axelle’s song

The shape of words, new and sweet

Dance like leaves, as mad as birds

From a grey suburban cube

Where you learnt to smell the rain

And see glass tubes across la Manche –

Finding here, the dust of plains

A little piece of history

Whether shapes in a room, seen as child

(“That shadow moved! It did…” she said)

They follow you, how can they not?

And furs climb high around your throat

Which pours a sweeter liquid yet –

Each syllable is lighter than before.

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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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