Cock
by Robert Beveridge They turn, wheel, stroll about in front of the door to the unemployment office, scavenge cigarette butts, caw, walk into walls, too busy to look where they're going, but for some reason never, ever fly away |
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Robert Beveridge makes noise and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Neologism, In Between Hangovers, and Clementine Unbound, among others.
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