Simon Perchik

You test each hole for winter
mixed with seawater
and from a single fingertip

someone near is counting
as if the sky is lit
by campfires and overflowing

that harden into sand not yet
a path for thirst and gravel
needs footsteps that can tear down

a mountain just to move you
further and under its darkness
-—you dig, want so little room

no garden, no winding rivers
that slowly come to a stop
as if this time you could

go to bed without the radio on
covering you arm in arm
-—you hear your finger bleed

crushed under some rock
floating by to shut out the cold
and from your shoulders the words

though your mouth is empty
longing for dirt, lifeless
taken ashore here somewhere.