two poems by Simon Perchik
1.
From habit, burnt
as if every morning now
the sun has to be reheated
still frightened by the cold
more than coming alone
— it's your usual meal
two slices, made stale
broken open the way coffee
just by boiling
turns your mouth black
— you've learned to open bread
till it reeks with ashes
and smoke already rising
to become another mouth
and on its lips
the small blister, resting
though there's no moon
only this side by side
lowered slowly, no longer
empty, your arms cramped
calling for each other.
2.
Already weightless these steps
don't need the morning
back away as that emptiness
stars are used to
— you can hear them narrowing
creaking and from behind
wait for the sun to open fire
flash past your forehead
though you can't make out
the week or year or the cloud
that knows you're there
comes for you between more rain
and mountainside still standing
no longer growing grass
can't love or remember
— you hide the way this attic
opens inside a door
that is not a flower
— an iron knob
that turns away nothing
and in your arms nothing, nothing.