commuteII

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.

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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

4 responses to “commuteII

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