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

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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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