and the stars, though each raindrop
—she bites! her hands hollowed out
The shell's too heavy, filled
only on snowflakes flattened by thirst
by each death and her eyes
s i m o n p e r c h i k
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UNTITLED
This woman with a dead conch
answering, whispers
the sea is still suffering
has some white left over.
In winter it's unbearable
fill with waves still dragging the sea
flapping great oars—she's kneeling now.
with that light taken away
allowed to return
and loneliness—she drinks this light
from which the sea is made, salted
floating away. And deepening.
e a s t h a m p t o n , n e w y o r k
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