robert beveridge, two poems

secret places

What I love most about these nights
is the massages—my hands allowed
such access as they’ve never had
at any other time. I can spend
eternity like this, on my knees
beside you, as you shift to guide
me to better places. I can steal
a kiss on your shoulder every now
and again, let my fingers graze
across your cheek, trace the softness
between ear and lip. These small moments
make us what we are; for now
they will have to do.

then i sobered up

Rot
all is rot

pierces the sky like a buzzard
swims in disease
let’s the hours pass
watches drips from the table

amnesia wakes
from its rusted sleep
liberated
to join its psychotic twin nostalgia
in a chess-game of desire

knights, like time,
are relative.

I never loved the knights.

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