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Nov 142010
 

by
Simon Perchik


I dig this grave

the way migrating birds

remember the exact site

-the spade pecking at itself

till all that’s left to eat

is the dampness in its bones.


It took this crow forever, first

to darken, then

to fly  but I am still afraid

keep widening this hole

not sure -all night each star

returning to the same spot

and this blade somehow heavier.


I lay down a bird

that still has wings

has a place you can use -the air

is not so safe anymore

and the dirt against its body

already growing into light


into some great mountain range

and these few feathers around it waist

looking all over for you


-you are always falling into rivers

-what you breathe now

comes from these shallow graves

emptied then filled -this crow

with its back to the sky

and no room left on Earth.