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Simon Perchik

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.


It was a brook, had names

though these bottom stones

are still draining, passing you by


before letting go the silence

that stays after each hand opens

–you dead are always reaching out


–end over end unfolding your arms

the way each star ends its life alone

in the darkness it needs to move closer


become the light in every stone

as the morning that never turns back

keeps falling without any mourners.

Even as silence
It was a brook
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