The Holidays

They are divided at stations,

little more than numbers –

 

while axles pause and lips

yearn for lips

 

children running

into another’s arms and

 

breaking the mothers

left, wondering,

 

if all the days

watching cracks and splits

 

as seeds burst forth, and

emerge from stone

 

in pliable, sonorous forms

not even gazing backwards

 

were worth it

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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

One response to “The Holidays

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