Simon Perchik ----- five poems

SIMON PERCHIK

10 WHITBY LANE

East Hampton, NY  11937

(631)324-2834

simon@hamptons.com

www.simonperchik.com

*

Lost and you watch the sun worsen

already falling as the nights

too weak to warm your shadow

though you read only in the afternoon

crouched under this kitchen table

with nothing on it that could sag

and without a sound weigh too much

let you open the mail, return to life

the window left in this small room

–you can tell from the stamp

it’s easy to fear

–so frail is its darkness

only your hands can be seen

holding your forehead, pushing it back in

to remember where you live.

*

By yourself though the sun

still needs more water –all that land

dried for just one afternoon

sent back alone and every morning now

you let the coffee try, boil

the way this table is spreading out

become the dirt for what’s in store

ready made as that small mouthful

that swallows you whole

to look for thirst inside a cup

side by side this one kept full

as if it was at home.

*

And though this pillow is enough

you still come by at night

safe from sand and salt

–with both elbows on the bed

your clothes in a heap

–what you can’t say

is soaking in sea grass

and her clothes too

no longer moving, piled close

for encouragement, lift your head

–on a dark bed, stroking an empty dress

Mickie, Mickie, Mickie

as far as it can reach

with her hand over your mouth

one sleeve at a time.

*

You no longer dig for shadows

as if this hillside depends on you

for water –what you hear

is trapped between two suns

one circling the other till nothing’s left

but the afternoon and beneath

letting its pieces fall off –you dead

are always listening for the gesture

the lowering that sweeps in

those pebbles mourners leave

as words, overflowing, certain

now is the time –it’s not the time

this dirt is afraid to open

become a rain again, be a sky

let it speak by throwing the Earth

and over your shoulder, eyes closed

though there is no grass

and your arms a Weber, Miller, Marie.

*

Even as silence you dead

favor knots, brought here

the way each grave is tightened

counts on constant gathering

and the arm over arm

that hold the skies together

as if some nesting bird

would fly out from this hillside

and leave behind its wings

spread-eagle, letting go

those small rocks mourners bring

for your shoulders –you want rope

not for its name but the weight

still taking shape inside, kept empty

and all around you the lowering.