*
*
And the gust that circles these graves
*
Just below the surface one arm
*
*
As if this dirt can't overflow
*
And the Earth leans against you
*
*
You wash this floor the way winter
*
The rain climbing along your wrist
*
*
*
You have this kinship, the limp
*
The dead the snow hold back
*
One hand held out --you expect
*
What a strange crop :the smell
*
*
These waves still surface, not sure
*
Between these graves and every Sunday
*
*
*
*
Already weightless these steps
*
With its feeble hold this hillside
apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review,
The New Yorker, Black Warrior Review and elsewhere. Readers interested in
learning more about him are invited to read Magic, Illusion and Other Realities
at www.geocities.com/simonthepoet which lists a complete bibliography.
24 poems by simon perchik