Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-seven
Spring 2015
Simon Perchik

It’s not a map yet there’s hope
–you unfold old times
as if one morning in February

you’d spread your arms
and land became land again
stayed behind as the snow

still tying down the Earth
–a small envelope, kept empty
the way you’d reach for her hand

and inside the air was warm
though there’s no rain, no grass
not yet a place for a name.

About Simon Perchik

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