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By Robert Beveridge


The beauty of the high rise is not

the marvel of its construction, constant

strength against wind shear,

superhuman feats of electricity

and enough network cable to circle

the globe. It is not the glow

of sunset on a thousand silvered

windows, nor the lights that blaze

after sundown to warn away small

aircraft, pelicans, UFOs. It is not

the shops, the offices, the thousands

of opportunities for gainful employment

in everything from accounting to prostitution.

Instead, it is the roof, and the way

the molding holds your eyes as you

pass it on the way down.

Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Survision, Loud Zoo, and Ghostlight, among others.

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