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by Robert Beveridge
open yourself to the light.
Nude, wet, beside the lake
you sun yourself, stretched
upon the outcrop. Splashed
with spray, occasional
and keeping you cool
in August sun.
Prone like this, the curves
of breast and buttock flatten.
Delicious straightness broken only
by cold, clear beads of moisture.
Your body touched would move.
I float and stare, observe.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Throats to the Sky, FEED, and Sublunary Review, among others.