You drew the circles, spilled the salt.
Cut the thread into the prescribed lengths.
You read the book until your fingers
were black with the grime of acid hydrolysis,
the words etched in your brain
as if a sculptor had carved them
into the back of your skull.
You spent hours over the motions,
the words, paused only for sips of water
at less crucial times. You embraced
the twelfth century as if it were your own.
You believed. You believed. You believed.
And then it was over. You lay on your back
next to the design, waited for a sign
that it had all been for something, anything.
You slept, brief, fitful, until your bladder
woke you. You stumbled to the bathroom,
looked in the mirror--
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Shore, Sein und werden, and Moss Piglet, among others.