Simon Perchik
You leave a fist, its knock
elsewhere and no one to let you in
the way her name on the door
has grown huge, fed hillsides
and the grass too is covered
with granite :her small room
filled with season after season
and each finger curled
held back, asking how cold is it
–it’s everywhere though your arms
still open out and all these doors
at once, let you stand in front
listening to a procession –one pit
filled with its echo and mourners
empty handed, hungry, cramped.
***
A small charm, from paper yet
and the balloon broken apart
–it’s a game kids play
that is not some air exploding
or between your arms and days
without someone to reach across
loosen your fingers still damp
from what was once countryside
and now each other –you wish a lot
are tired, your breath no longer shops
and once the tin cans and small cities
are sorted out what you crumple
is the brown paper bag they came in
no longer has the feel you remember
or the laughter –the boyish clerk
no longer asks, Plastic or paper
reaches under the counter
already knows what’s coming
–even there you cover your ears
and gradually it’s too far for you
can barely hear the flashing lights
breathe out and along the edge
the same ashes falling off
beginning to take hold.
