Twenty degree drop
and the water has frozen
in the vase. The flowers
still that shade of violet
never found in nature. 
Cards in hand, you stare
at the table, try to discern
the proper layout for sudden
frost, for the vanished
fish and the guilty cat,
for languages you understand.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Fleas on the Dog, Dissections, and Instant Noodles, among others.
header: Kajetan Sumila via Unsplash