Poems |
by Simon Perchik |
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So rounded a season : the sky in a few hours, fits and the moon has a warmth a harvest --your breasts overnight --from your heart everywhere a flickering light flies open and the moon heated, already noon --streams widen from stone to stone as if this floor still had a secret spot and voices differ from one another --you say the dry stones are innocent the rest venomous, to listen for stones for the thickening :each stream, you say and turn toward my lips --you lift my head as if some star was falling, only once and I had to know how it feels to drown, to be a season to wait for daylight, to wait for evening and slowly turn. * And though this tar breaks open it's not Spring --in the curb a hubcap :soldier-songs and cannons needed at the front --you will lift this helmet, surprised the eyes are still warm, the trees single file, softer than snowshoes and letters home --you will lift the roadway, traffic will stop and snow muffle the small dent half smoke, half fever, half echo --it's hard to believe these trees live by hearing, a mist breaking into floes, into wings and behind the engines ailerons shaking each windshield --you try dragging the trees to safety, to the warm cheek you hear slip past as stars do, weighing you down your arms immense, bending over. * Some sooner than others, the cup cold, damp and then a singing, hugs, cakes --this table prepared, its span would enfold be guided :the tattoo must be administered --a stranger and ask for a refill, assure a stain and its circle and the chairs somehow now are carried higher, boiling pots allowed to touch our shoulders and a nail where you would expect the windowpane to drain --we hang this cup for birdseed filled --how many times though the waxes we buy are already melted, the table warmer and unshaken. * Knots stay put and travelers have their favorites, listen for squeaks --I hang my coat and the table can't move, tied by a great cloth as if it couldn't hear this bread shaped like a girl jumping rope whose braids are all I remember :the knot still trying --it takes a knife to creak and keep coming --I stare at the window left open undo the laces and my shoes suddenly warm stopped calling for home. |
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