In a chamber with three hundred
ninety eyes there is no place not to be seen.
No blind spots. The corners, the ceiling,
on the back of two cattle statues
with your own custom saddle, the eyes
are there and remain forever.
In thickness and in health, in air unbreathed
for ten thousand years, overripe with gaze
and disdain. It is said no man has ever
stayed the night under the stare; the only ones
who sleep in this room are here for eternity.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. He has recent/upcoming appearances in Red Coyote Review, Deep South Magazine, and Aromatica Poetica, among others.
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