Simon Perchik
They have no second thoughts
and still your footprints
inch by inch, gradually
made whole the way this shovel
lost its taste for dirt
carries in only snowfall
leaves its own reason at home
for a room that stays
close by, becomes those skies
one by one, done for, dives
on every path night first
–you dig for worms
as if one would tell you
or show you, or move your hand
or with the light off
a kamikaze cry for light
–you have no return
and step by step no morning.
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