*
You face each afternoon the way this window
becomes a wound, clings to the sill
though in the dark it’s the curtain
that reeks from smoke as the emptiness'
sleeves give off when covered with lace
still warm from reaching up for those feathers
mourners leave on the ground to put out roots
know what to do with broken glass
with the hole so close and following.
Simon Perchik’s poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker, and elsewhere.