Selected Poems



     

Simon Perchik







*
		You wash this floor the way winter
		waits for its ice to stir
		show more interest in coming closer
 
		and the drowned --what bubbles up
		is bottom sand though you drift
		and further out more water
 
		unable to dry so far from home
		--a single drop by drop
		wipes down the world and longing
 
		--it's how you sleep
		leaking from your pores
		this side then that breaking open
 
		holding on to each other and now
		without shape, making it through
		as surfaces and nearer.
 
 
                  
	   *
		You must enjoy the risk
		swallowing rainwater, splashing
		so close to the ground
 
		wait alone for the train
		you know is never in time
		can't rub the tracks dry
 
		or keep you from leaning too far
		--it's the chance you take, wave
		--sometimes waves, sometimes for nothing.
                  
 
        *
		From the same glass
		--it's the risk they take
		jumpy, out in the open
 
		the way a puddle, to this day
		ices over, survives the winter
		as one hand uneasy with another
 
		--you drink from a glass
		too heavy, half frost, half
		water that keeps its voice
 
		safe, no longer in some stream
		listening for more water
		though you drown holding on
 
		to your favorite glass
		that no longer remembers you
		or better days.
 
 
                  
 
       *
		This wall and sunlight
		hiding under the faded wallpaper
		though its flowers no longer move
 
		--a single 3X5 snapshot
		brings the room down
		in flames and further off
 
		the rickety wooden frame
		smelling from corners
		already broken open
 
		lifted alongside in pieces
		and the glass in pieces
		holds you closer, closer
 
		and your chest keeps warm
		--it alone left standing
		as if the wall you don't use anymore
 
		could recognize the place
		without getting lost, or your voice
		or the arms next to her.
 
 
 
 
       *
		Between these graves and every Sunday
		you bring the wide, floppy hat
		--on each visit, the red scarf
 
		before the light she asks for
		cools, hardens into the back and forth
		that cradles each small stone
 
		--she's not interested in stone
		and tells you so though it's not Sunday
		--it's not any day, just winter
 
		stone bars and you wait outside
		for the gate to show up
		or how long she's been in.