Simon Perchik-III

So many dead! let this pebble find her

and its own never ending emptiness

to guide you through these graves

 

–you almost hear her undress, far off

half matted hair, half as if each cave

is filled with echoes –bats are good at it

 

shoulder to shoulder the way your shadow

wing over wing is uprooted, worm eaten

no longer the whisper between your fingers

 

and her breasts –such a small thing, a pebble

coming in low, brought down by a death

left standing, holding fast to lakes

 

oceans, sleep –you sleep on the ground now

alongside weeds and her comb still warm

from edges, corners and mornings.

 

 

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