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Simon Perchik​


Star by star you add a word

the way the Earth still darkens

from the bottom up, lets you hold on


keep it from shedding just its light

and your fingers –you write

as if this stone was already black


and step by step your child-like name

pinned on to become its last breath

while you steer the lettering back home


leave spaces for this iron waterfall

to point from under some mountainside

at whispers that no longer move


smothered by braids, shoulders, kisses

that are yours, oceans, winds, mornings

blacker than this dirt and lost.





These stones too steep, cling

the way the overcast side by side

lets through one star –in the open


you devour its incinerating light

and distances though the grass

has just been mowed and watered


knows all about how the night sky

stands back, erect, righteous

between each grave and winter


where you lean over to drink 

–always the same cold air

two mornings at a time, and choke.

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