Posts by simonperchik

You squint the way one eye still aches

By on Oct 11, 2020 in Poetry | 0 comments

You squint the way one eye still aches was shaped by rising water as it flattens out in the silence that wants you to make good without asking why or what for –it’s how moonlight works, half disguised as tears to soften the ground half as a sea that long ago left all these bottom stones uncovered as the mist where their breath used to be –somebody owes them all something though you come by to pay down one that still has its arms around you is pulling you closer to shore by wiping the foam from your lips –you darken the Earth to get a better look and with child-like...

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Before water was water it grieved

By on Nov 5, 2014 in Poetry | Comments Off

Before water was water it grieved word by word the way each woman caresses her first child though what you hear is its mist washing over those breasts as moonlight and riverbanks no longer struggling — by instinct your lips will claim the Earth with the kiss that gives each birth its scent and between your arms clings with just its bones — with each kiss you drink then weep and the dirt already rain helps you remember nothing else between your thirst and...

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as if they once had teeth, your hands

By on Dec 2, 2013 in Poetry | Comments Off

As if they once had teeth, your hands nibble on apples half mud, half worms –you eat only what falls to the ground rotted, serene, made dark by the welcoming slope into evening –you pick the way every stone points where to rest, has this urge to be useful, calms your arms still attached to the same mouth and milky breath, holding on –you share these twins with the sun stretching out on your forehead shining in its darkness from the start and in you arms the word for offering, for stillness,...

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Step by step the nights

By on Apr 25, 2013 in Poetry | Comments Off

Step by step the nights taste from weeds salted down though even shorelines decay, taking hold between the dirt and one last look as dew half marshland, half within reach where her breasts are forever water and from this darkness the thirst you use for mist and bitterness, surrounded by rocks and in your throat her lips saying things, ordinary things.    

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Between your two weakest fingers

By on Sep 12, 2011 in Poetry | Comments Off

Between your two weakest fingers the quarter slips, your wish drowning half in moonlight half held down by your arm — you’ve got an hour in a meter clogged with ancient lakes and marrow with wings seeping through the altitude where north stays stranded in your bones juts from the curb and a little water for your heart — with the first handshake you will forget again, your wrist towed from beside some motionless glass filled where nothing else is thirsty.   Passion...

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