*

by Simon Perchik

Except for the new suit

the boy in the photograph

is starting to wave again

though you dust its frame

half sweetened wood, half

no longer exhausted

drawing sap and the rag damp

from brooding –you spray

then wipe, ready this wall

the way each small stone

is rinsed side to side as the river

that carries off one shore

the other each year heavier

holding you from behind

screeching across, wet with saliva

with nothing in writing

or a button you can open

for its scent and mist.

 

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.