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Simon Perchik-II

Exhausted, on its back the sun

–from so far, brought down

by its unbearable weight


not sure it can be lifted

cool, become the moon again

and without stopping, listens


for the darkness, holds on

to all that’s left –you look for her

as if every night is mixed with mud


and mountains not yet ashes

though you can make out her shoulders

still warm in this enormous silence


split in two, growing hair

and lips and flowers, holes

madness and nothing else.