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Three Poems
by Simon Perchik

And though this tar breaks open
it's not Spring --in the curb
a hubcap :soldier-songs

and cannons needed at the front
--you will lift this helmet, surprised
the eyes are still warm, the trees
single file, softer than snowshoes
and letters home --you will lift
the roadway, traffic will stop

and snow muffle the small dent
half smoke, half fever, half echo
--it's hard to believe these trees

live by hearing, a mist
breaking into floes, into wings
and behind the engines
ailerons shaking each windshield
--you try dragging the trees
to safety, to the warm cheek

you hear slip past
as stars do, weighing you down
your arms immense, bending over.

§ § §

Some sooner than others, the cup
cold, damp and then
a singing, hugs, cakes --this table

prepared, its span would enfold
be guided :the tattoo
must be administered --a stranger

and ask for a refill, assure
a stain and its circle

and the chairs somehow now are carried
higher, boiling pots
allowed to touch our shoulders

and a nail where you would expect
the windowpane to drain
--we hang this cup for birdseed
filled --how many times

though the waxes we buy
are already melted, the table
warmer and unshaken.

§ § §

Knots stay put and travelers
have their favorites, listen for squeaks
--I hang my coat and the table
can't move, tied by a great cloth
as if it couldn't hear this bread
shaped like a girl jumping rope
whose braids are all I remember :the knot

still trying --it takes a knife
to creak and keep coming
--I stare at the window left open

undo the laces
and my shoes suddenly warm
stopped calling for home.

§ § §

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker and elsewhere. Readers interested in learning more about him are invited to read Magic, Illusion and Other Realities at www.geocities.com/simonthepoet/

Reprinted from Ink Pot #5, available now

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