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 (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Survision, Loud Zoo, and Ghostlight, among others.