The Sweeping of Madrid

Behind la Casa Rojo

The dusty girls shake out their hair

Each strand cracks its way

Across the stained glass, still

Showing whales blood, the puncture

In Sebastian’s chest,

Tiny flies, mad with heat;

And yet

I Crane my neck to watch you dress.

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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

4 responses to “The Sweeping of Madrid

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