They become the dim light
in some empty theater, the aisle
deeper and deeper — nothing is left in me

that I can use for whispers
— what you hear are kisses
almost invisible — I close my lips

to give off a great darkness
the way each star sets out
for its first cry, quivering

in terror — my weaker lip
soothed till its shadow
lets go: each Fall

exactly one hour
only with stars
raked into piles and the ground

— what you hear is my mouth
made blind and the wind going by
— only the air takes root

and bedrock holding fast
and on my lips
pitted from corners and distances.

Simon Perchik
Copyright © 2005



Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, the New Yorker, DMQ Review and elsewhere. Readers interested in learning more about him are invited to read Magic, Illusion and Other Realities at http://www.geocities.com/simonthepoet which site lists a complete bibliography.