Twenty degree drop and the water has frozen in the vase. The flowers still that shade of violet never found in nature. Cards in hand, you stare at the table, try to discern the proper layout for sudden frost, for the vanished fish and the guilty cat, for languages you understand.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Fleas on the Dog, Dissections, and Instant Noodles, among others.