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.
