untitled simon perchik
Even the night was made from wood
has sheets, a gown, the kind
brides wear only once
though you pace in front the bed
the way mathematicians mull over chalk
scraping it against something black
that could be pulling the room apart
with the faint sound from dust
coming by for what’s left
and the corners –vaguely you can hear
her lips breathing into yours
setting on fire the stars
that would sweeten your mouth
with the never ending hum
emptied from wells and springs
for smoke, no longer knows how to talk
how to glow when side by side
as planks and weeds and this pillow.
has sheets, a gown, the kind
brides wear only once
though you pace in front the bed
the way mathematicians mull over chalk
scraping it against something black
that could be pulling the room apart
with the faint sound from dust
coming by for what’s left
and the corners –vaguely you can hear
her lips breathing into yours
setting on fire the stars
that would sweeten your mouth
with the never ending hum
emptied from wells and springs
for smoke, no longer knows how to talk
how to glow when side by side
as planks and weeds and this pillow.
untitled simon perchik
And though this door is locked
it leans into the evenings
that hollowed out the place
for its marble and grass
where you still hide, afraid
make the dead go first
–they already know what to do
when the corners are no longer enough
and with your finger become
the sudden breeze filled with moonlight
and distances opening the sea
holding it over the fires –pilings
are useless here, these great walls
cringe from the cries rain gives off
where a morning used to be
and you are following it alone
as if there was a light in the window
waiting for you to come by.
it leans into the evenings
that hollowed out the place
for its marble and grass
where you still hide, afraid
make the dead go first
–they already know what to do
when the corners are no longer enough
and with your finger become
the sudden breeze filled with moonlight
and distances opening the sea
holding it over the fires –pilings
are useless here, these great walls
cringe from the cries rain gives off
where a morning used to be
and you are following it alone
as if there was a light in the window
waiting for you to come by.
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Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The Osiris Poems published by boxofchalk, 2017. For more information including free e-books and his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com. To view one of his interviews please follow this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MSK774rtfx8