top of page

Simon Perchik

You fold your arms the way this pasture

gnaws on the wooden fence

left standing in water –make a raft


though it’s these rotting staves

side by side that set the Earth on fire

with smoke rising from the ponds


as emptiness and ice –you dead

are winter now, need more wood

to breathe and from a single finger


point, warmed with ashes and lips

no longer brittle –under you

a gate is opened for the cold


and though there’s no sea you drink

from your hands where all tears blacken

–you can see yourself in the flames.

bottom of page