for the days

This year scenes were little but slowly shattered plates

thirsting for attention amidst the ersatz of the months –

left behind a wake: empty glasses make me wonder

why a collection, a memory hardens – maybe we

soon see petrified strata in the sky

maybe we already do. I quickly box it in to find


these kneejoints still spit themselves as chipped glass

pushing a body through coughing births and

separating waters as they pass: my elbow looks

familiar once as it crosses what was my face –

soon we’ll see the livid form

or glass turning, or something. To notice, all, enough

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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