they wait, all huddled close
the king had died again –
life is very long, so kids
pass down your pages
in close-cut hair

children arrive
not for long
they know not
what they do

(he came back once, naked and bruised-
She returned a second time.)

The fourth, nobody noticed, except
she left other wakes –
lighter streaks across the streams
where water turns the birds.

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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