by Simon Perchik
And the hillside pulling down this snow
--more dirt is needed, the dead
brooding how these flakes stick
how useless was their blood and wings
--it's impossible to breathe, your name
like a cold bit in my mouth
and I hear the snow too --this close
nothing but our names
and the sky is drained as if marshes
or swamps or the heart
where suddenly there's no more rain
nothing to freeze or melt
or cry yanking my mouth
--all you can hear
is my side to side without moving
or stomping my lips on the snow
or even this tree whose leaves
when they are wanted most
--nothing will warm this snow
or my still damp cry on its way
through the Earth.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. Readers interested in learning more are invited to read Magic, Illusion and Other Realities at www.geocities.com/simonthepoet which site lists a complete bibliography.
