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

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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