3 Short Poems – Robert Beveridge


molt. molt again.
three years of change
for three hours of flight
a single orgasm

for Allison Beveridge

Bud encased in bract
invites, courts the legs
of flirty passersby.
Teased, it opens to a kiss,
a touch. Your whimpers
light my way.

The Sound Of A Million Mad Clocks

Rain touches flowers
slides down their petals
colors bleed onto the sidewalk
the work of chalk artists

the city architects
added another clock tower
and now the two battle
every hour for supremacy
over the city

About the contributors: Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in New American Legends, Toho Journal, and Chiron Review, among others.

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