I can still detect
your scent in the nightfall around me
It is the smell of a fire in a fireplace on a cold night
It is the smell of the blood of a turkey on Thanksgiving morning
It is the smell of the sea air to an inland man
I breathe these flowers in
and exhale their poisons
keep only that
which seems to thrive
inside me
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in CircleShow, The Literateur, and Vanilla Sex, among others.
theolivepresslit.wordpress.com 