Simon Perchik
Again this shrub each Spring
stirred by the same passion
its leaves never forgot
–one heart safely dead center
the other rash
brushes against your shoulder
and goes one from there
–they sense this bush
is pregnant, feed it blooms
and the root floats up
so the child inside is born
in the year-after-year fire
that returns even the dead
with flowers and thorns
drained dry for the later
–a splinter is enough
giving birth always to twins, one
a mast from an abandoned ship
the other floating downstream
nourished by the slow move
from leaf to leaf reaching down
as rain now that the shoreline
has disappeared and in its place
a fence, a gate and the outcome clear.
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