View Archives by:



Simon Perchik

As if the rain this minute stopped
and behind the invisible strings
a windowsill —its hard finish

stroked, not sure the sound
is dark enough, high enough
—head first each raindrop

ending its life next to wood
to this bewildered sun
this shadow in every direction

tumbling outloud —again more varnish
—the sill motionless from its dark stream
—you can't see the oars

but the brushing calms :the rocking
that surrounds all water
—what you hear never dries

is the sun clinging —this one plank
soaked in lullabies. What you hear
is the darkness closing its eyes.

Simon Perchik

Read Bio

Author Discusses Poems