Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Forty-one
Summer 2016
Simon Perchik

And though it’s dark these dead
still remember how every stone
smells from dirt that never leaves

becomes a sky without an evening
they can hold in one hand
and not the other -they call out

with valleys :cries that have forgotten
to rise far off as sunlight
and trembling -these dead want snow

side by side, already flowers
and lowered, opened at the throat
and no longer breathing.

About Simon Perchik

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