* |
by Simon Perchik

Depending on the height, dust
is colder in the morning
though once you tuck the rag
it’s the shelf that staggers
pulls you closer and slowly
smothered by something damp
made from lips, shoulders
and the invisible breathing
into pieces, smaller and smaller
till the air around your heart
won’t let go this wood
no longer days or falling.


Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” and a complete bibliography, please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.