*
You kneel the way this sky never learned
those chancy turns the dirt throws back
as breezes, still warm, scented
with what’s left from when the Earth
had two centers, one blue, the other
footsteps, half random, half gathered in
for stones no longer moving
—you begin each descent
unsure, around and around, entangled
as if roots would nudge the dead closer
again into your arm over arm waving goodbye
with one more than the other
—it’s how you dig, folded over
and your shadow deeper and deeper
already reeks from far off and wings.
*
You strap this watch in place
as if it inherited the wobble
that grew into sunlight
then darkness, then wear, then
you set the time years ahead
the way dirt still unravels
and between each finger
a slow, climbing turn remembers
the middle before it became
the sun —it’s hopeless! the watch
trying to keep up
taking you by the hand
though you dig alongside
clearing the ground for later
for the footsteps already wagons
and you wait, humming
to the small circle passing by
tired and in your mouth.
*
Ear to ear though the tree
darkens the way this saw
no longer drifts alongside
in the open, clings
to wooden boats and the dead
you can touch with your tongue
once it’s morning and the blade
has nothing to do, already
half rainbow, half riverbank
low over your mouth
opened so you can read
between the lines, send back
a note smelling from wood
older than anything on Earth
stretching out till the dirt
overturns and you drown
swallowing leaves, branches
days —you cut with hours
that know each other
that bind and by themselves
filling with clear water.
*
For a time, carefully reduced
as if these shoes were watertight
and each pricetag pointing out
—you don’t know where to dig
though dirt must mean something
motionless under the exact place
that could be anyone
the way nothing in this shop window
is left standing, needs more dirt
more and more and the hillside
that always falls backwards
refuses to get up, no longer tries
and all these passers-by two by two
in your arms already opened
for so many dead from just one grave.
*
You bang the rim the way skies
loosen and this jar at last
starts to open, becomes a second sky
though under the lid her shoulders
wait for air, for the knock
with no horizon curling up on itself
as sunlight, half far off, half
circling down from her arms
end over end, reaching around
making room by holding your hand
—it’s a harmless maneuver
counter clockwise so you never forget
exactly where the dirt was shattered
hid its fragrance and stars
one at a time taking forever.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Osiris, Poetry, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013). For more information, free e-books and his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.
Beautiful. Timing is everything.
Cheers, Katie
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