DIVINITY

in our innocence we prayed
wrapped our words in mystic cloaks

yearned to open ourselves
to something greater something more

our words were not enough
so we invented languages

cut back the branches of the forest
and set them ablaze

body to body
mind to mind

we learned to fuse
the corn syrup, the egg whites

the vanilla 



JULY 4 IS COMING AGAIN

fingers
are unable to withdraw
into themselves. the roman
candle union supports this
one hundred ten percent, yessir.

somewhere
on a rooftop that overlooks
a mock civil war battle
a cadre of pangonlins in trenchcoats
hand out matches
to 14-year-olds. 




UNRHYMED

Teeth sink into flesh, nick it 
enough to slip your finger in, 
pull away the callous, expose
the raw center.

You separate a wedge, slip it 
half into your mouth, bite down.
A trickle of juice rolls from the corner
over your throat.

I savor it in my kiss.

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Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Sparrow’s Trombone, Three Line Poetry, and Failed Haiku, among others.

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