Robert Beveridge

Another Contemplation

At times like this, before the darkness falls,
exactness eats its fill within my brain
like little larvae, burrowing again
into my memories — the twisted halls
cancerous, repellent. I flee to now,
to books, to photographs of you, to how

in Polaroid you are blurred, washed out, vague.
No eye color to imprint on my mind,
to gaze out affectionate at me. I can't
even put a shade to it now, offhand,
Not that I don't know it — I could find
the color in the biggest box of crayons
hidden in the back of a toy store. Why
do your eyes escape me? Still, I try.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). Recent/upcoming appearances in JMWW, Wordpeace, and Thirteen Myna Birds, among others.