Skip to content

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.