by Robert Beveridge
razor parts waters
light pulses, blazes
forth, lights the path
to the next piece
of overstuffed
furniture. Thorns
against the concrete,
blood in the eye,
the spleen, the dim
microphone
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in London Grip, Tomorrow and Tomorrow, and Sin Fronteras, among others.
