SENTIMENT
oh, that the birds
would not fly south for the winter,
that we were in Capistrano
or at least Barbados.
You bought your second horse,
can now operate the ancient plow
the fortune teller swore would allow you
to harvest gold. oh, that the birds
would subsist on horsehair
and the hides of old rabbits.
Arm in arm, we stroll the boardwalk
eat ice cream from one another's cones.
It melts, reflected in the copper
behind us, turns our fingers white.
oh, that the birds
would allow us, too, to fly.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Red Coyote Review, Deep South Magazine, and Aromatica Poetica, among others.
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