twenty-four

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.

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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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