You show up late as usual
need more darkness
though you wait
the way each star
smells from dirt
and her eyelids
–the mouth you return to
is already weeds
worn down by the silence
that’s lost its balance
can’t escape
and won’t let go
–some nights
further than others
smaller and smaller.
About Simon Perchik:
Simon Perchick's poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.
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