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Two Poems // Robert Beveridge


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.


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 ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in New American Legends, Toho Journal, and Chiron Review, among others.

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