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

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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