Volume 26, Number 4


To keep from being lost forever
you sift the way this dirt
is shared though each morning

hides another stone
that has no room for you
–you hunt in packs

as if each grave feeds
only on waterside
and no longer flow

–what you join is an agreement
to match –the dirt here
is different, wears black

can’t hear the cries
that never made it out
or wherever their roots come from

–you collect mouths, count
and in your fist kisses too
won’t be coming home.

—Simon Perchik