Body of salt and mist. Cinematography
stippled, dark. Light has never reached
these cobblestones. Technicians scurry,
investigators deduce. Never use two words
where one will suffice; the daguerreotypists
will handle that.
The smell dark, acerbic,
but not that different than usual. The police
leave, as they always do, and the rats
emerge from their holes once again, await
the next feast day. Summer swelters,
lingers; Saint Mary comes apace. The rodents
peek through Catherine wheels, cock
noses to the wind, await blood-scent.
Everyone looks twice at shadows.
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.