Robert Beveridge



The sky purples in the east
towards Toronto, towards Mecca
and you sit in the crotch
of the split rock next to the bridge
over Tim Jones’ carrot field.
You pull the walkman
from the breast pocket of your
denim jacket, flip over
the Napalm Death tape, press
play, go back to contemplation
of the blade of goatgrass
between your teeth. The province
may have declared victory, but
what do they know? The juice
turns your spit green but tastes
of purple, of wheat, of distant rain.