This poem is taken from Stand 219, 16(3) August - September 2018.

Simon Perchik Three Poems
*

You paper the sun  ̶  with both hands
bury the ashes though the time hasn't come
for shadows  ̶  what you darken

sooner or later becomes your fingertips
still warm, wanting to spread
as winters, be harvested  

from a sky already half stone
half so often covered with snow
 ̶  you cling to a grave

that has no grass yet
is setting out and for a while
across the ground and the others.

*

Though when you wash
the roof no longer leaks
 ̶  a missing stream

lets you rest alongside a sink
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