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.

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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