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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.

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