Belie by Robert Beveridge

seven nails provide restraint

bat sits, eyes, fixed, sightless

drove without drove within

another antler sick with want

a hold against a door ablaze

the glow where blood alive, aware

dark corners fetid on the tongue

provide all stimulation Washed

with chamomile and lye. Torn

paper marks the brick. Believe.

Nothing scurries in you now.

All is still. Repent. Believe,

Never question. Cynic drone.

Cigarettes and silk. Believe.

Eyes roll back in candy jars.

The chocolate on your tongue. Believe.


Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Ghost City Review, Minor Literature[s], and Barking Sycamores, among others.

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