two poems

I.

Here is broken underfoot a sub-miracle of clay
within held something, resemble, faces if
the light is right, the clouds crack so – above me
a freshly thrown memory: the realisation that
what hangs is the same as what is trodden daily –
night time is barely real, soon you will see this too
and there, in soil, the words stop deep

II.

Somewhere the reaching barks break skin
and pierce bridge pierce arch, right through erupting
leaves shading steps and clamber calves, sallow thighs
don’t swallow as I bind myself in trees and write that
time is eaten by the time, all the rest danced in and
we almost did these things together: autumn creeps and
suddenly, we are old

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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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