Untitled Suite

You can forecast the rain, this Frisbee
overhead though one hand
is always weaker, holds on

the way your belly makes room
for flames, for lower and lower turns
that help you see in the dark

while the Night Star leads the others down
to drink in safety –a great herd
all night thinning out the air

higher and higher, higher and wider
and because the darkness is still water
you can’t hear the sun closing in

crack open the smallest stones
for their light weaker by the hour
–it’s a now-or-never toss

–you ask too much! it’s not some ship
from space –it’s a game for beginners
–you grip the Frisbee and the Earth

still can’t keep its balance
is coming toward you as shadow
half way up, tightening around

your waist, closer and closer
around the fire inside
you were saving for feathers and later.

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Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker, Poetry, The Nation, Southern Humanities Review, and elsewhere. For more information, including his essay, “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities,” visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.