“Attractions for adults,” a wooden fence,
lewd youngsters at the knotholes. A scene
long-repeated at amusement parks.
I prefer more private forms of pleasure—
subtle things, small, that only lead to excess
over time. The look that becomes the stare. I
need only one thrill ride.
The touch that becomes the embrace.
How you press against me, clothed, and let
obstacles of fabric fade to nothingness. How our
mouths become the ferris wheel, your body
a rollercoaster. How you pull me awestruck
senseless all too eager towards the tunnel of love.
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Ghost City Review, Minor Literature[s], and Barking Sycamores, among others.

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