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

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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