Jan/Feb 2011 Poetry


by Simon Perchik


Up was never the place, this bulb
brought down by the same gunfire
flickering for years on the ceiling

though the room stays empty
grieving for a side door to open
on where the sky used to be

—what you hear is a jacket
moving closer to the watch
still on your wrist reaching around

in your throat and overhead
you can hear its minutes
seconds and you count out loud

as if one sun still touches another
breaks apart in midair
colder than no place else or dark

—you hear the breath
that can only exhale, the gust
held close, frozen to your hand.


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