Simon Perchik
*
Not with the light itself
lifting this page closer
though the breeze already left
–you need glasses, the kind
crystal-gazers use
and for centuries would weep
to birds that go on living
–cockpit-glass! pressed
against your forehead
by wings and distances
–in the end the book too
will lose its slack, approach
with the window in front
closed and even its shadow
had no chance to escape.
*
You have so many arms
holding fast the way all cradles
are lowered side to side
still listening for the breeze
that comes from one whisper more
–what you calm here
are lullabies lifting you ashore
as campfires, heating your lips
with salt and kisses
that never let go –here
everyone sleeps on the ground
though there’s never enough brushwood
to cover you song after song
draining your heart into its arms
filling with ashes and autumn.
*
As if these sleeves are cooled
and that slow roll
you’re still not used to
left one arm in the open
struggling, almost holds on –the tattoo
helps, smells from flowers
kept cold though it’s an old shirt
given your bare skin
for its years, months, minutes
and the exact place held close
licking the ice from your shoulders
your breasts and the flowers.
*
From under this pathway the sun
brings your shadow back
the only way it knows
though what it pulls up
is just as weak, hardly pebbles
and on a plate left outside
as if this grave is still vicious
caged the way the dead
are fed with your mouth
calling out from the dark corners
for stones, more stones –step by step
you remember things, better times
careful not to come too close
not raise your hand
or one false move.
*
On the way up this darkness
must sense it’s more wax
letting the varnish take forever
though you count how high
a second time –these shelves
aren’t restless enough, here
for the fire all wood is sent for
–in every room! caskets
stacked as if from behind
the wall would reach around
smelling from bark, roots
and the uncontrollable embrace
heating your cheek the way rain
returns to lower its face on the dirt
that never moves :these boards
kept open for a dry rag
all night rubbing your forehead
darker and darker, almost there.