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.

 

 

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