*

Your fingers depend on somewhere far
no longer boiling as sunlight
–they huddle the way the mad

are cured, splashed in a mist
half ice, half crushed between
the first caress and darkness

–they make a fist, cling
as if counting backwards this dirt
would point in a straight line

though what will become the sun
is not warm yet –inches old
already spreading out in need.

Simon Perchik

Simon Perchik’s recently published books of poetry include The Autochthon Poems (2001, Split/Shift) and Touching the Headstone (2000, Stride Publications). His poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Partisan Review, Poetry, The Nation, and Colorado Review.