You make a fist so the leaves
tighten though your heart
is already in flames

spreads out on the highest branch
the way birds are misled
by your eyes, fly in

to keep them warm
till there’s no room left to sleep
and you stare at the sky

at what has forgotten you
passing by without any rain
though your hand has rusted shut

still at the controls
half broken glass, half scrap iron
half because you can’t let go

the headwind –you were taught how
to lean against trees
that don’t leave the ground

are still looking for your body
–you didn’t die, of course
and trees too are easy to fool

but you did disappear
like the flashing button
from one sleeve rolled up

and not the other
–two fingers were frozen
before the birds cut them down.

Simon Perchik

Simon Perchik

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013).  For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.
Simon Perchik

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