Simon Perchik-IV

It’s a struggle though your legs

inhale the vague heaviness

walking around your heart

 

no longer breathe out

or lower you to where the night

comes down from the ceiling

 

as dirt mixed with silence

and wood –you’re too weak

to walk the streets –the dresses

 

are empty and your skin

takes in too much air

would float the way a plank

 

is salvaged from a shipwreck

to make a likeness, a clearing

you can fall on and her shoes too

 

will dry –you sit on this bed

as if both pockets are stuffed

with waves, rocks and further apart.

 

 

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