that first week, always

we find ourselves again, in-betweening
entwining up switching ons to offs
making
something to fit new-space

to hold is we’re told to hold
but
take the comfort, boy, it’s yours;
this place is memory hardened
a series of gaps between arms. We don’t yet know

if fits
are the result of pacing. Watching others pounce
always made you lurch. That was me

this in-betweening; shaping words
I would never normally
leave out.
More space drops.

you, so very much
finding something in-between – same edges
clip your tongueback and
make you pause. This likeness is. Is it.
Like a nowhere hand? Push harder

strange optimism lurks
slipslides brightly.
Hesitation is the death of me wondering deadly
what will emerge, moth-slow
in y/our light.

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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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