Autumnal fuckery

With methods nicked
From symbolists who hold
A far cleaner claim to dominance
Than any I could uproot

I tie you up
With vegetable slowness
And pinch away
Resistant fibres

Leave you barking, boughed
And sapping quietly –
No fruits of fighting
Hanging down

Your chest is
Not a tree
Knotted and nesting –
‘Cuckoo’. ‘Cuckoo’.

Untangled eggshells,
Dripping dewlip-leaf mould –
I leave you reaching
Unfinished, half-grown.

I am no green man, but
Still I push my face
Through foliage to see
You waiting for the fall.

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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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