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

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
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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