Haiku by Robert Beveridge

rain falls at the edge
of the desert
ooooooooooooa bird wings
its way over sand
the loudest sound in
the world, then deathlike silence
settles like black ash
9 august 1945
June drizzle patters
against your temples. You wish
for one glimpse of sun.
I hold you closer
lights blaze around us
ooooooooooooooooooooSouth Street
Philadelphia
slow burn, perfect draw
the feel of your nicotine
lips against my throat
soft spring breeze showers
petals onto my car: clouds
foretell a rainstorm
on teal sweater, your
necklace dangles between your breasts
your eyes my focus
spring’s embrace falters
echoes of winter chill sound
in the ghost of snow
lips whisper my kiss
along your collarbone: shout
choked inside, pleading
spring drizzle punches
holes in furrows, much like hooves.
Nine perfect furlongs.
summer ends last tree
in the city lifted out
roots attach to stone
steady, I stare at
a blade of blue grass, pluck it,
rest it on my lip
fifty
midafternoon sex:
we left the windows open
cries startle the geese
pillow on the bed
teddy bear in the corner
crying girl first bleeds
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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.