Tag Archives: Simon Perchik

Inside your arm a rope though the road you hide is lifted by hills – the sleeve rolled back the way all curves return as if nothing happened pull alongside, surrounded no longer airborne let you splash among the turns … Continue reading →

A simple hush and the moon loses direction, smells from skid marks and nausea wants to change places end up on your shoulders the way a sobbing child uses height to forget be near where the others are and sideways, … Continue reading →

Step by step the nights taste from weeds salted down though even shorelines decay, taking hold between the dirt and one last look as dew half marshland, half within reach where her breasts are forever water and from this darkness … Continue reading →

You stack dried newspaper the way every tower keeps track where the others are – in every room as if this clutter could darken would guide you into the open growing over the usual rain and stars impossible to find … Continue reading →

This branch climbs past you the way a breeze spreads out warmed by roots and feathers – that’s why when you look down the fruit changes its colors sweetened with leaves and eyes that are all alike though the tree … Continue reading →

You walk past as if the first death was a bird – enormous feathers half-stone, half-outworn, one by one though they still need more time could calm these dead, spread out airborne, older than the number 10 than this hillside … Continue reading →

You caress this dust as if it’s stuck drains under ripples and sap though all goodbyes keep warm in a dark lake at sunset, reek from varnish, hunted down by small stones by dying wood and from the rot and … Continue reading →