Art and poetry on page and stage



Simon Perchik


      Faster then faster
this gate
    gaining the advantage, crouches
    the way skaters surround their arms

    and around these dead
    clinging to stone and mornings
    -by instinct the fence

    slides your hand closer
    touches your sleeves
    as marble and rapture

    -even without this breeze
    you're used to the sky
    pulling you in, smaller and smaller

    as if the Earth stopped before
    let its dirt fall away, open
    not yet from behind.


    Whatever you soften
it's the dirt
    that starts though your lips
    touch down and try again

    counting off the hours
    just now learning to mimic
    rain -in time

    you will smooth the ground
    better than before, for years
    talking babytalk -have to

    -this rain is not yet
    what it wanted
    and all the way down

    you practice the way stones
    are surrounded by dew
    no longer whispers and places.