You cover one eye, upset
though sunlight means nothing now
and against your cheek some mother
strokes her child—you praise half
and what’s left spends the night
the way all wounds begin
as a single touch then end
broken apart under the same wind
birds use for a home
and every morning more sleep
is needed, more darkness, returned
as if it had its beginnings here
is touching down, adored
by one hand held out, the other
no longer moving or found.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, Osiris, The 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 http://www.simonperchik.com.