walk

pinewoods chase my nerves: it seems we
measure what is pushed down soles
aground: a gap which records our pace:

not only this: you saw me eating old snow
scraping nightings from my tongue
forming families: I swear I’d fit right in

stillness streams and I bend behind you:
twisting some leaf-matter, for an image
like this: our mouths always moved anyway

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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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