Sand
in the Wheels
you
must have rubbed
against
it in your sleep
because
what was once
a
fold now gapes, pink,
open,
each clash
with
the teeth next door
shoves
the ice pick
another
millimeter closer
to
the basal ganglia,
to
the freedom
of
stasis in perpetuum.
Robert
Beveridge
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Artistic Differences Project, 1870, and Mason Street, among others.
Tags:
Poetry
A powerful piece. Jawdropping. Terrific title.
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