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A stain that never heals --at the wound
this bowl taking on water, dead flowers
--I lean --my lips so close
is already a flower
split down the middle
--with the same warm water
softly toward water that can't leave
--behind this great stone my back
bending more when the sun is full
rolled tight --it's natural your grave
should be round, talking
always about a journey
or dragging back another stone
each night heavier and stars
are growing on the sun --maybe it is Spring.
Maybe this sky, fading, yellow, weakened
side to side so close
leans on your hand and the melting.
Simon Perchik is the author of numerous books of poetry, including, most recently, The Autochthon Poems, Touching the Headstone, Hands Collected, Letters to the Dead, Birthmark, and Shearsman 19. In addition, his work has appeared in hundreds of publications, including The Partisan Review, Poetry, The Nation, North American Review, Beloit, The Colorado Review, The Denver Quarterly, Southern Humanities Review, and The New Yorker. Additional information is available on his website: www.geocities.com/simonthepoet.
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