Five poems by Simon Perchick


You squint as if its cries could fit

and in the same pot this egg

lowered to the bottom –each wave

learns from the others just how much

end over end heats an inside

that has no shell, becomes a sea

overflows the way you dead are buried

embraced by a room filled with water

by walls built from wood and knots

and nails, has a door that opens up

whitewashed, sent out as daylight

all the time adding shoreline and salt.


Barely marble yet these tents

are pulled along the ground

by rope that needs more rope

not yet some high-wire act

for acrobats just learning to wave

while the crowd below

listens for rain already overgrown

with mold and longing, kept wet

by your step by step holding on

to the corners as if they

no longer want to be unfolded

and you could stop walking.


As if these gravestones were once a forest

between each there’s still the breeze

from wood and leaves and winter

though under your fingertips the initials