Poetry of Issue #7        Page 41

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It’s not the sink –what you hear
is the sun all night calling its mothers
though their embrace still arrives

as thirst and the morning –two stars
brighter and brighter till the sun
is born at the exact minute it needs

to bury its darkness in the fragrance
smoke gives off as clouds and the longing
for rain rising from the sea –you splash

and between each finger its shadow
begins to breathe, is hugging you
with the wet towel and its hidden body.

  Simon Perchik