mit art

we are not actors anymore, we have no need

for hiding the shapes our birthing took us –

my ribcage juts today and lacings snap and

 

you built a framework on my skin – look

closely and your face is there, just between

the sketches that were my grounding but

 

photographs reveal my worst, a sepia flooding

the china slates of yesterday. You litter my floor

and a love hits me like a train – I am the sleepers

 

you are the rail

 

I lie on hollows of your shape, toying

your name exists and spills all secrets

a looping, a whorl and I’m still here

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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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