Three frogs blink morse code
in the twilight. Your job is
to decode their messages, seek
communication from Masons,
Illuminati, the Rosicrucians.
Why they only transmit
when the sun is in the west
you never thought to ask,
but your handler swears this is
the case. You pound out
their nonsense on an ancient
Selectric, turn in reams
of gibberish to be analyzed
by another department.

Nine o’clock, time to head out
to the nearest dive. Bikini
dancers serve you Moscow
Mule after Moscow Mule, yet
the green taste never leaves
your tongue.

Midnight. Six eyes light
with a queer intelligence.
Commence transmission.

[Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Feral, Ez.P.Zine, and Homology Lit, among others.]