Simon Perchik


This flower pressing against my palms

— celestial navigation must come easy

scanning my hands for arcs and islands

— I want to be there when its fragrance

finds where you have hidden your breasts

from the silence — it’s still worth while

to take hold, empty this flower

follow it in the dark — don’t ask me why

but before bending down

I stood on just one foot, eyes closed

trying not to lose my balance

or breath — a haphazard touch

imprinted by exploding galaxies

and I too would change course

into a scented breeze

and these dry, small hands

that live too long.