Simon Perchik
Water doesn’t help, to bathe
you leave the door open
unclog the room, let its breeze
drain and between the riverbanks
a sky no star can climb
without falling off in pieces
broken apart from emptiness
and the endless plunge
back into a sea half shadow
half some overgrown field
that reappears in the hallway
as dust and then nothing –after all
these faucets face each other
are not used to loneliness
or leaks falling from windows
–you have to trust these leaks
when inch by inch a hole
through another hole
that has something to do with a ledge
one behind the other
and cries for air, more air.
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