*

by Simon Perchik

It’s this thin envelope, empty, closed

gasping for air though your knuckles

are still flickering –what you hold

was never mailed, lets you rest

read the address over and over

just to move it further off

away from this boiling mountainside

ripping apart, flowing down your arm

with nothing left and cools –these days

you don’t lick the glue –in all directions

your mouth is her name, alone

coming back as ashes and snow.

 

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review,

The Nation, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” and a complete bibliography, please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.