PROMISE ME THE MOON By Robert Beveridge

                                                             PROMISE ME THE MOON

Snakes in clouded mittens sit on mountains in the dusk.
Me and Sonny Bono clean the fog before it rusts.
A bowl of winter wheat begets a stream of huckleberries
while the deep resistance plants its bombs in beds at Mother Mary’s.
The snowman melts, its fractured back a grace note on a flute,
while D. B. Cooper buys Vancouver with his stolen loot
and Leonard Cohen comes to town to sample magic fruit.

You sing? You may have occupied a basement-dweller’s pills,
but the landlord is a-comin’ and it’s time to pay the bills.
You streaked with Michael Angelow, but didn’t get away,
and the enforcers line the pitch to give you impetus to pay.
Your lack of pockets no surprise, your trousers in the jakes,
the interest rate is everything your chosen artist makes,
and the only thing that’s left—go find those clouded mitten snakes

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in El Portal, Blood Moon Rising, and PTMN.TEAU, among others.

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