Simon Perchik

S i m o n  

P e r c h i k

The flowers leaving this page

open up in water

are already heading back

the way your shadow empties

still remembers one by one

icy streams crossing overhead

with something more to give

—you write another letter

make the words embrace

followed by day, by evenings

and everything put on paper

is safe, is mountainside

returning rock by scented rock

drained and in this small bundle

passed among the others.

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