by Robert Beveridge

A month passed. The rain
continued to fall. A national
emergency, they called it,
banks broken, the currency
of mud, of silt. Mothers

joked of growing gills. The
rest of us stared out windows, willed
visibility across the street
wrote poetry about sunlight
flowers, pairs of animals
in temporary housing



Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Pink Litter, The Ignatian, and YuGen, among others.

To read click here: "Precipitation"

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