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The Blog Bog

The Mag Rack


*

The dead are already holding hands
and what's left they share
as memories --in the meantime

who do you suppose makes this tea
and the smoked fish, then room
for the grandchildren you almost forgot

were born later --the dead
are no better at it than you
--they mix up dates and places

though what pins them down
is no longer the flowers
soothed by each other and vague streams

--no, it wasn't you lifting this cup
> passing itself off as empty
with nothing inside to unwrap

--from the start the dead form a circle<
as if they still expect to sing out loud
and you would hear it, open your mouth.

                           SIMON PERCHIK____
























*

Though the flash has left his hair
combed back with hers held down
by iron straps and waiting --the dead

are never ready for a wedding
go house to house, ask for enough
in case you've seen these two

alive somewhere, rubbing their eyes
as if the photographer might set off
another miracle and nothing change

the way every grave goes door to door
as rain --would jam each drop open
alongside all these flowers, smelling

from bare wire, fresh dirt, storms
counting the ones that already
reached the ground and not moving.

                           SIMON PERCHIK____

*

Empty and the sand
follows you along Broadway
as if some dampness

was left for shoreline
moves the IRT up
then down the way clammers

use their feet to rake
--you walk on tracks
careful not to miss

while the train underneath
breaks open its doors
all at once --no, you don't jump

nothing like that
--these shells are the same
the mad feel for

though their sweat takes the place
water grieves into
and their mouths are the same

let you yell down
and not a mark inside your body
to call you by.


                           SIMON PERCHIK____

*

All day and your arms
need the smock loose
and white gloves

--this barnacle is the kind
that spirals toward the light
already nurses

on a rock half at anchor
half this kitchen table
--a small loaf and already

ravenous though once it's cut
it begins to circle closer
and what your arms free

is no longer joined at the heart
born over and over
as twins facing each other

lets you see your own lips
and in the darkness
that belongs to you both.


                           SIMON PERCHIK____