Haiku by Robert Beveridge

Robert Beveridge haiku

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


thermometer breaks
fifty
ooooooooobus stop kids in shorts
high school: fun again

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.

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