These fences, half done

These fences, half done, half
still counting the afternoons
that return alone and those

with no way out –the dead
must like it here, come by
bring the family, lawns, let you

get to know the neighbor’s
birthdays, what they remember
--this colony has built its city

on staves broken off as sunlight
that looks away though the gate
is open, used to your shadow

spreading out to cool, holding off
step by step where the name goes
when you give it back and in shame.

You can tell by the heat

You can tell by the heat
though they long ago gave up
the search for water and air

and with every death another
comes to this dry riverbed
already hillside, warmed

by some invisible spore
deep inside and your hands
around it, closed

the way each footpath slows
still gathering the others
who take too long in the curve

--all these rocks! and the dirt
peels off till what you hear
is everywhere the sun

not yet born and in your arms
bit by bit broken apart
with care and mornings.

All day and your arms

All day and your arms
need the smock loose
and white gloves

--this barnacle is the kind
that spirals toward the light
already nurses

on a rock half at anchor
half this kitchen table
--a small loaf and already

ravenous though once it’s cut
it begins to circle closer
and what your arms free

is no longer joined at the heart
born over and over
as twins facing each other

lets you see your own lips
and in the darkness
that belongs to you both

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review,
The Nation, Osiris, Poetry, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013). For more information, free e-books and his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.