Simon Perchik-I

It’s a simple thing, you weep

and though your eyes are silent

they don’t reach –what you see

 

is your heart covered with stones

that have no mornings either

except far off where all mist starts

 

the oceans are grieving on the bottom

holding down your forehead

–so easy a flower could do it

 

say in its face-up way, Leave!

there will be no more kisses

and from your mouth all Earth

 

overflows, becomes lips and distances

–that’s why nobody asks you

lets you imagine you see her clearly

 

knitting a blanket, a white one

rusted needles in both hands, you

walking by, already thorns, roots.

 

 

 

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