Bowdown by Robert Beveridge

The needle sits in its locked groove
just before the record’s start.
The circular grumble of spin,
how dust too small for vision
creates its own rhythm.

The crowd, at first stopped, confused,
now begins to dance.

 

 


Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Chiron Review, CultureCult, and Random Sample Review, among others.