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

To warm this dirt the way these dead
hold on to each other —single file
brought here as darkness and longing

—night after night a small handful
then another and this hillside
is pulled along, rescued

from all the days after tomorrows
though there’s not a hint your shadow
can be unwound just by a wave

to find more room for mornings
—nothing’s changed, a single thread
still circles the sky

for the day you are losing
letting it tug at the little cries
that do not come back.

About Simon Perchik

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