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Simon Perchik


It has nothing to do with the banjo –this chair
aches for wheels that will rust, wobble
the way riverbeds grow into something else 

–where there was a mouth, there’s now wet dirt
and with a single gulp the Earth is drained
by a compass that points to where it’s from

and you are eased room to room
as an endless sob drying in your throat 
–you sing along till side by side

each wheel becomes that afternoon
that folded one hand over the other
as if for the last time.


What was siphoned off the sun
could just as easily be this tree
and each branch carried out

struggling with moss and faraway 
–who can tell it’s not this tree’s 
last chance to sort the light

as if going somewhere was still possible
that love too is possible –all this wood
even in winter arriving to gather you up

as leaves, shining, smelling from dew
already beginning to blossom, impatient
for arms and shoulders and the fire.




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