SIMON PERCHIK
(631)324-2834
*
Even the colors are
anxious, carried
as if its new home
above ground
would skimp the way
all rows use dirt
cut in two with
nothing in between
–you suddenly bring
it a darkness
use one hand to
comfort the other
though you’ve done
all this before
have no faith in
mornings :clumps
that want only to
forget, just lie still
holding one end
close, for a long time
sorted out and
unfamiliar fields
taken place to
place in flowers
in ribbons, string,
thread, something
feeble, tied to the
dissolving Earth
by this shadow and
your arms.
*
As if the paint poured
across
could stave off
rot, circle down
though this gate
heads back
once it leaves your
arms –by itself
whitening the trees
already stone
certain you will
come here forever
bring twigs, let
them sweeten
soften on the
ground you bite into
struggling to
float, unable to breathe
or unfasten her
skirt –your mouth
oozing the way
mornings arrive
to dry, kept moist
by these dead
and berries dressed
as roots and grass
surrounded, filled
with the taste
from her eyelids
not yet flowers.
*
This rotted log yes
and no
longs for the
stillness
that is not wood
though you
are already inside,
seated
at a table, a lamp,
clinging
the way all light
arrives alone
except for the
enormous jaws
once shoreline
closing in
without water or
suddenness
–you lay down a small
thing
and the Earth is
surrounded, fed
slowly forehead to
forehead again.
*
You reach for
lullabies, left over
and the slow crawl
half whispers
half where your
lips ache, float
the way this empty
cup still wobbles
will break apart,
overloaded
disguised as two
steps closer and alone
then fill your arms
with its darkness
seeping through,
breathing out
not yet an embrace,
not yet the mouth
where your fingers
end, surrounded
by more and more
dirt, a small room
here, there, there,
not yet asleep.
*
It’s never dry
–another gust
though this
elevator is carried
the way you count
backward
for hours and the
door flies open
lets in a sea half
hillside
half rising through
the floor
–you walk in to
sleep, begin
with the sound sand
makes
when scattered for footprints
still following the
silence
between 10, then 0,
pressed
against your face
–tides
are used to this,
start out
to forgive, then
lay down
as emptiness and a
home.
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