And the sun directly in front
thinks its safe, pleased
with my poisonous shadow
tangled among the dry weeds

though it's never sure
all the time looking behind
as if it too has a dark flash
is saving it for evenings
for those heavy roots and rivers
along some wailing slow descent
and burial at sea

--I wait till noon when the sun
is softest, loose, still enough left
to cover this peach pit with one hand
with its tiny shadow that stings
then devours the cornered light
and feeds on helpless rocks
where nothing moves --you expect me

--why else all night
do I count its tremors till the Earth
breaks in half and it too
have always a withered side
that grieves for the one behind it
and the morning --you can hear the hole

where this shovel moves closer
though the light with a single drop
will fall over you and you drown
in stone and loneliness
and the shadow that tries to carry you
past the sun, past my mouth and kisses.





*
Not until the frost shows up
and yet the lawn
must think that ice will wait
while I let the hose run loose
among the lame and the young

--I spray this herd
the way each maple sweetens the grass
to heal their wounds
tasting from flour and bread
and my breath kept warm

though the pipe will freeze
clawed open :the thaw
all beasts sense and the cellar
floods --me on my knees
cupping both hands in some footpath
that circles the Earth, is ready
to blossom into birds
and this yard kept scented
as if there was no rush
the cold means nothing
and you pin back your hair.

It's easy to forget in Spring
why the tap should be drained
and the cold air allowed to climb
--you need a hat, all year
the tight fit that covers your ears
with memory, with darkness and flames

--you still don't see it coming
though you learned --so much heat
so much solder, drop by drop
as if the rain would harden
from mountainsides and cooling
and you pull your arms apart
let the waters through
in panic, on fire --I do it every Fall

when the dead need it most
and the extra water
so even this tree knows
where to return, where I am waiting
and have forgotten how.


Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker and elsewhere. Family of Man (Pavement Saw Press) is scheduled for Fall 2009. For more information, including his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” and a complete bibliography, please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.