Poetry by Simon Perchik

To remind these dead -this rock
was once their only word
though now no one can hear it

-they too have forgotten
where nothing had a name
let the place do all the talking

-it was a time for breaking in
and breaking out -the weakest breath
learned to tremble from the weight

piece by piece deep inside
the bone that is your throat
-this endless sound worn smooth

knows nothing about the others
was left here to harden, try again,
higher, tastes from kisses and edges.

_______________________________

This comb stretching out
is dragged across your brain
the way a butterfly migrates

-the same side to side
fixed in its wings as a place
it has never been before

though under the mirror a sea
follows you from the beginning
with weeks at a time, surfaces

for the waves it left behind
-by the thousands, impaled
on some vague wind just now

flickering on your forehead
as the hair that’s kept in water
for directions and a leaving.

_______________________________

Don’t you believe it! to be continued
distracts from the front page
brushing against some hearse

wants more time -this newspaper
is opened then wider as if the rattle
could be heard though you sleep

a lot, sitting in a chair half wood
half the way a bell will practice
till its stance feels right

though you are the only one
listening in some great hall, your arms
folded as if they were not yet lost.

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About Simon Perchik

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere. For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” and a complete bibliography, please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.