Simon Perchik

Inside this monument a rainit doesn’t want, coming bywith winds and the flag  this way and that reaching outas if the war endedsmelling from all your letters home  wet—they had to be wet, scentedwith thunder and kissesleft on the ground, already  this harves

You can’t tell from these cloudswhy this afternoon was set on fireis burning through some lullaby you’re singing to yourselfby gathering a few leaves, some twigsfor the gentleness falling out your mouth —you dead know how it is, each hushmust be buried on the way backwith

You fold this sweater the way a mothbuilds halls from the darkness it needsto go on living—safe inside this closet a family is gathering for dinner, cashmerewith oil, some garlic, a little salt, litand wings warmed by mealtime stories about flying at night into small firesgrazing on