Above me now, a roof.
Above you, also.
A tree does not wave, but
a chain is made, nonetheless

Is this a gift?
It fits my hand.
My hand moves
Of another accord.

Gestures pass, with all the riot
of fouteen-thousand inert grains
and yet
we stand, white-sleeved,
marking empty space as our own
and to no reply.

Dissent stays out, for now,
although looks in
with the red-ringed gaze
carried by anyone,
anyone who finds an end.

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

2 responses to “twenty-four

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