Simon Perchik


Pulling this bowl to your lips

as if traction was needed

though it must know by now


why you dig with the same whisper

that once beat back the wind

and the sky changing direction 


you lift with what became 

the moon, still crawling in its cage

one end to the other, that no longer


struts in the open, is terrified by air 

wants to cool and in your throat

crumbles from exhaustion and splashing 


you make a spray so this spoon

will empty in your arms overflowing 

as grass and so many fingers.





The door knows why it opens

and still youre not used to it

could be a sound from the 40s


gutting this radio

the way all skies darken

fill with distances 


you listen for the slow turn

the Earth never forgot

though a hidden crack


keeps the room from exploding

and costs you nothing

has already started its climb


spreads out with both arms

you begin to crawl

and not yet an old love song.





You begin to sweat, for hours

the way these stars poke through

and everything has come true 


its a knack you learn

quickly, pulling up small stones 

thats it! afterwards


you bring back those same days

as evenings that no longer

say anything, the darkness


is enough, lets your fingertips

pin down the Earth, hold it

drain it afterwards 


you put back its night

as once and never again

though your shadow too


falls  from a sky swept away

for rain and your hand

wider than usual, gone.



Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan ReviewThe NationPoetryThe New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013).  For more information, including free e-books and his essay titled Magic, Illusion and Other Realities please visit his website at

Posted on May 14, 2015 .