Indian Summer
The touch of grated
daikon on the tongue, smooth
warmth against the taste
buds, coolness of vegetable.
You take a sip of your drink,
pull an ice cube
into your mouth, hold it,
kiss me.
The touch of grated
daikon on the tongue, smooth
warmth against the taste
buds, coolness of vegetable.
You take a sip of your drink,
pull an ice cube
into your mouth, hold it,
kiss me.
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Savant-Garde, Other People’s Flowers, and The Indiana Horror Review, among others.
