Song for A7

I’m remembering a time before; all I saw
was your face reflected through optic lines
sitting in your kitchen, spilling stories

mothers and sons; the colours of your
phrenology, loving their way from your voice
to deeply beneath my tongue. It stays.

How did we go from that to where; you
humming a way around my homes, a
voice in my kitchen, bleeding my sheets?

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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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