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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.