Simon Perchik
G33
Here was the chair, what’s left
Is flooring, in time
prairie mist and bridges
while the still dry wood
pulls you slowly across
no longer alive, your hand
crackling in the fire
— you sign up for it, twice
though you couldn’t have known
this emptiness was already rising
from the river below
no longer calling for help
— this neighborhood is safe
the rental agent suddenly says
as if it’s today a year begins
and for the closets you hollow out
a small stream, there
to which a bend will come
