You don’t read how weak it was
though this windtorn composition book
steadies its lettering for afternoons
the way beginners wave their arms
making room for the Honor Roll
mixed with stone, not yet the pages
– these dead are used to it: words
put together by a still-warm crayon
and you too no longer move
leave them nothing except an afterall
in writing and on these sheets
hillsides to fit inside your name
holding it between your fingers, higher
and from the struggling dirt, over and over
making mountains, clocks, emptiness.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The B Poems, published by Poets Wear Prada, 2016. 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.