Simon Perchik
As if the pump for the well
is carving her shoulders out
and the invisible stone
you will hold when it dries
broken up among the ruins
though some rocks
still squeeze one hand
too tight and the faucet
cover you with a place
that can not rest
–what you grip will be this cup
left over from the first death
no longer noon but a cramp
for which there is no potion
only her lips falling from the sky
almost empty, worn down
clings to the ground
as minutes, hours, evenings
–for years one hand
closing over the other
already a shadow
half grass, half thirst
half some vague hovering
inside your throat
–mouthful by mouthful only cold water
at last in the open
pulled up and still falling.