Simon Perchik

*
Going somewhere with you
is all it holds on to
--a single blanket

the kind the dead carry
over them
--you can't tell the difference

though you wish there were
--to warm is all it knows
and you are led under

till your mouth opens
looking for her
--to kiss, empty her throat

with your own --on faith
you stretch out
bring back to the room

her damp scent
tied at one end
and not the other

--with both eyes closed
you show her her picture
without thinking.