poetry (a response)

these imperfections you perceive,
blockades to the left,
putting world to a space between
what you wonder

that on which you fix your gaze –
the colour is unimportant yet
mentioned nonetheless alongside
ordinary musculature

and here is only now, and soon
all things move toward an end –

most unremarkably. Nothing cushioned,
nothing gained

but lines and

a reminder why we don’t write.

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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