*
It must welcome this light
sent up, banished and the sun
overflowing still can’t wait
till morning —you will open the door
for something you’re not sure, make room
the way a tree rests its branches
higher and higher and the room
kept empty for evenings
on their way back, bone-tired
hollowed out, barren, cold
and the door take in
the darkness :the dying down
and the slow, climbing turn
for which there is no word
no sound or below.
*
No! an axe won’t do it
though there’s the need
to stretch out on the ground
—not a bow-saw, it shortens
the way logs once warm
will remember why music
strikes when it comes by
and the wood still not dry
—no secrets! in the open
flash this tiny knife
so the tree sees its reflection
while you carve out its heart
as if all trees once
were twins —two trunks
within call, cut back
by an endless arrow
passing through the Earth
and no one it can hold close
except the emptied sky
and lightning —this blade
can bring down forgetfulness
and all these branches
smoldering over the ashes
the shadows, the still warm dirt.
*
Its power comes from this froth
—never mind there’s no caldron
to make sense, you drink
listening to bubbles work a cure
are healed when the fountain
touches you, smelling from gauze
and nursing homes —the old
have no choice, they let the faucet
run and for a while
wait at the sink for something
they’re not sure
—they have no memory
though the drought is always there
shaped as a stone reaching out
for kisses whose lips are the breath
rising year by year from all water
and once in your mouth, by magic
becomes the word for waiting
with both eyes closed —you drink
what must be your shadow
floating off half foam, half waterfall
scraping your throat on the rocks
—all the way down a spray
made ageless, washing over you.
*
And though the rain has left
tired waiting for the slow descent
become your shadow reaching out
when no one looks —to lure it back
takes deception! you cover the windows
with silk and drop by drop the walls
stay damp while the sky
loses itself in your arms
—it’s not your usual clouds
and you jump, afraid you’ll drown
one hand held out, the other
kept empty for rain and the floor
making its way back —it works
—your shadow already lifting you
feet first, on your toes
as if it sees the sky surrounded
by other skies, in bits
and this dark place you hide.
*
You wipe the way the moon
once warmed the Earth
caressed your arm
with shapelessness
and the fever left over
from some fiery beginning
half shoreline, half
waves still flaring out
staking their claim
and memory —inside this path
a brain, left behind
to deal with the scent
smoldering leaves give off
—you sniff for stars
that have no light yet
only the fragrance stones replace
endlessly cover the dead
with leaves and these dried flowers
everywhere burning in small piles
—what you smell is a smoke
that can only remember.
— Simon Perchik
