Knife to a Gunfight

By Robert Beveridge

The structure is intact,

bone, muscle, blood

vessels in perfect condition

but your face slips, switches

from the network to a low-

power UHF monstrosity

that shows nothing

but commercials. You have

become a Vermeer whose

paint has flakes. The space

between the tint gushes,

bursts its varnish banks.

You blink.

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.