Simon Perchik


Here was the chair, what’s left
Is flooring, in time
prairie mist and bridges

while the still dry wood
pulls you slowly across
no longer alive, your hand

crackling in the fire
— you sign up for it, twice
though you couldn’t have known

this emptiness was already rising
from the river below
no longer calling for help

— this neighborhood is safe
the rental agent suddenly says
as if it’s today a year begins

and for the closets you hollow out
a small stream, there
to which a bend will come