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by Simon Perchik

By the handful, in tenderness
yet your shadow erupts
and by nightfall holds on

one shoulder then the other
spun as if this dirt would find
the wind it came here for

circle up and cover this place
with your finger touching
the grave skies grow into

and never let go—a parting gesture
collecting darkness with another
helps you leave the way the dead

fill their arms with the Earth
carried around as morning and higher
in stones they know by heart.


Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in The Partisan Review, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His two collections are Family of Man (Pavement Saw Press) and Rafts (Parsifal Editions). (3/2009)

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