Issue 8 – Perchik

Simon Perchik


With its feeble hold this hillside
—a simple bond though your shadow
is pulling loose—this dirt

won’t keep its promise
as if nearness means nothing
even when you expect the sun

handful by handful, back
to warm itself
yet you still come here alone

can almost make out the breasts
the eyebrows and on this mound
the forehead you long for, the eyes

that rise from this leftover darkness
as two mornings and at night
two nights, closer and closer.