Simon Perchik


Not from some savannah the sky
took root half in ice, half in sorrow
half where its warm fruit

still falls against your cheeks
the way rain would spread out
before you learned to weep

though the grass still covers you
ripens as the mornings one arm
still hears before the other

–you take with nothing to give
and sunlight too has hardened
has forgotten how yet just the same

you gather its mist and one by one
from between these stones
a little distance is lifted

empties, clasped in the open
weightless, lost among your fingers
reaching for pieces and each other.

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