|
Simon Perchik
|
This window sweetening the air
hangs as if some fruit
would light your room again
— even the walls won’t break
off
fixed on a window that rises
to be lost, its tears
falling one upon the other
go over it slowly — in time
your kisses and the glass shoe
you see through
— in time your foot will harden
take hold, become the branch
that rings the world
never letting go
the last thing you saw
— in time your whispers
further than great mountains
lay exhausted in the snow
just stop and the air thins out
loses its way — a fragrance
saddened by the white thread
still graceful in the sun
— by the hair and thighs
and mouths that fit exactly.
