ASSUAGE
pretty apron to hold onto
is still, and rare, with steam
against the rudder, fallen
in a haze of ice crystals,
premier league champions,
fog. Do you eat dust? I eat
dust. I thought the world
ate dust. Convince me
to stop. Put on the apron.
Tell me I’m wrong.
OUT OF CONTEXT
Your boss gave up last Tuesday,
now sits in the corner, eats
grass, stares at every water buffalo
who comes past without a coffee
cart. The quarterly projections
took this into account, found it
would make no difference
in the bottom line. You cross
to your desk, open the bottom
drawer, pull out next month’s
celery. This stuff won’t enter itself.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in New American Legends, Toho Journal, and Chiron Review, among others.