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.
