Doors drag themselves, and we thrust through
reeling from signs that flicker and switch
with shutter-speed trips, cutting this way and back.
We take pains avoiding inky gazes –

the strange and the fattened, locked into their wrists,
caught up in the stars, the columns of tales –
families, lost wives, the barking, the sad
the girls who have murder cut into their hands.

The morning’s still flashing, in typical ways –
attempting to prove that changes can come
from this tepid wash of English skies, these
towns pulled from marshlands, the days have drained

such wonders. They built with all intentions –
riveted, nailed, knocked up by top hats,

industrious line upon line, now held

in ghost-faced postcards, praised at stations.

The coast breaks my sight, and somebody tuts

at the sun slashing through the uniform blinds.

A shot of blue, a stretch of sand is caught before

the cities sprint towards us.

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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