Robert Beveridge

LEVEL BEST

Your line of sight was gobbled
up by an Arctic Tern somewhere
off the Barbary Coast. You’ve
ridden your thumb halfway
to Whitehorse in pursuit. Sleep
eludes you, so you sit
in the passenger seats of vans,
campers, tractor trailers, listen
to the double yellow lines pass,
pass, pass.

       Vampire teeth patter
against windshields, drivers
fumble at passes, truck stop
food all tastes the same. No bird
outside the window sounds like
your bird. The 49th parallel
looms closer, ever closer,
and your ears forecast the snow
before your bones get the memo.

There may be gold in them thar
rivers, there may be birds
who make their homes
in the smokestacks of the old
sternwheelers, but until you find
the beautiful utility of those
hazel-flecked orbs, you’ll
never find them yourself.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in New American Legends, Toho Journal, and Chiron Review, among others.