*

                                You dead must think this acorn
                                will collect you in a circle
                                the way some cloud
                                once collided with the Earth
                                --it's still raining :the pieces
                                trying to finish it off

                                --you like to hear the story
                                that has no place else to go
                                will bring you to the surface
                                though this hillside is still battered
                                by stones and you have to count out loud
                                on your fingers the evenings
                                the drop by drop till all that's left
                                is the sun --you don't have to ask
                                how it happened.

                                You listen just to keep warm
                                and each morning you hear
                                the same darkness, are sure the sun too 
                                has cooled, that a single tree
                                rebuilds this cemetery
                                carries the gene for water
                                brings back the child
                                who took its first breath from water
                                where there was nothing

                                though there are voices that never dry
                                that want only each other, seated 
                                around a small fire, shielded
                                from the wind by stones

                                --you dead want the Earth
                                to yourselves, blown out the sky
                                falling in one solid piece :a thunderclap
                                half marble, half for leverage
                                moving you closer, making room
                                drifting, staring, cold.

                               


                                *

                                This shallow dish dead center
                                though its glass is commonplace
                                shimmering into mist

                                --it's not the usual birth
                                or that fragrance still moist
                                from the womb, reaching out

                                to be born in the open
                                --you cool this tea
                                the way every breath

                                divides in half then half again
                                and again till all that's left
                                is snow --what you drink

                                already has your eyes, your lips
                                and between your hands
                                its scent ices over where once

                                there was nothing --side to side
                                you darken this water as if the moon
                                still rocks the Earth asleep

                                --you sip this darkness
                                let it stain your voice
                                your whispers frozen to the bottom.


                                *

                                You climb and these steps spread out
                                in those rings trees still carry
                                under their wings 

                                --you collect height
                                and at night two at a time
                                though the steps are chipped
                                the inscriptions worn away 
                                staring off to the side 

                                --they will be first 
                                spruced back to life
                                and at the top you move the sun back 
                                --crosswinds can't be trusted
                                always on the run, raging inside
                                close to your throat

                                --you carry up the dust
                                the Earth turned away, step by step
                                this wall all there is to lead you safely
                                against her eyes already hollowed out
                                as if in all this stone
                                there's no place to lie down
                                no room for your hand
                                that suddenly will open
                                and over your lips the stars
                                breathing down, count for nothing.



                                *

                                On a pedestal yet, naked
                                though it's the light from stars
                                lifted shoulder to shoulder

                                --you sift this snow
                                as if a lone flake was imbedded
                                trapped in the shallow breath

                                when her heart shut down
                                --path by path
                                you wear the sharp gloves

                                every mourner fills with stones
                                carves from the Earth
                                another marker, the kind you roll

                                over and over your lips 
                                so nothing escapes the bitter snow
                                to open or answer or wait.



                                *

                                This spider has it made
                                settles in the way each nightfall
                                tightens around the sun

                                then eats it dry
                                though these branches
                                are not that organized, their leaves

                                escape beside evenings
                                darkened with graveyard marble
                                already moonlight and no turning back

                                --you bring it a small blossom
                                half loneliness, half stone
                                to breathe for you 

                                lowered into this web
                                broken open as if its roots
                                could reach out, tighter and tighter

                                swallow the Earth whole
                                and along each path sift
                                for this stone no longer struggling.

-- Simon Perchik