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.

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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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