Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By: Simon Perchik

Photo by Frank Cone on

From just dampness, nourishment
and rust seals the bolt
in place –the carriage

already there and nearby, it rains
though you take hold a single spoke
as if the enchanted palace

stopped moving –why is it
a parent favors the weak one
and the crib early on

strengthened with blankets, around
and around the way they dance
in fairy tales scented with midnights

with a gate half iron, half
this wrench, its gardens, ponds
no longer coming apart.


You come by as if this dirt was once
the ceiling, thankful on small apartments
though these dead at the last minute

open the doors alone
and from each room the great cry
already smells from rock and avalanche

–you listen for flowers though these handfuls
could make the difference
the walls the faces and echoes.

Even in the dark
your shadow is slipping away
covering the floor with rain

and what’s saved once the night
overflows –hold me! put a stop
to arms that are not arms

no longer can close the door
from so far off, nothing
though you cling to a board

that has no one inside to bury
is clenched between your teeth
and the black coat dragged

by water, by this single window
for hours circling to come down
look for glass and the others.

Not lace –a saucer
and this table spreading out
overflows the way stars

are cooled, made feeble
need to be lifted from under
as if any rim kept shallow

would spiral down
let you enter the turn
at floodstage and shoreline

–a lens! and its stench
brings your mouth closer
can be seen opening

covering your face, sealing it
with this small dish :a distant sore
coming unraveled, leaves nothing

to chance, expects your lips to go in
kiss it, drink it, stretch it
enough to reach its skim and heal.


This bloom still reckless, its heat
breaking into the furious hum
bugs use for melting snow

–there’s no interest in romance
though every winter now
is warmed, takes hold your hand

by brushing against the dirt
risks its place to lure you, naked
in front the house, her breasts

surrounded and across your tongue
a lingering darkness welcomes them
knows nothing why your fingers smell

from avalanche and salt
and never had that taste for sweets
moving mouth to mouth

snatching things up, louder and louder
certain this frost is frost, named
so soon after its birth and yours.

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