Premiere Generation Ink.

***

Each boat lowing, the waves
graze darker, darker
as if my canvas shoes were used to bells
to this dock eating its damp rot
its arms and legs

--you would toss your hair
push away from your eyes
their green between each wave.
Is it three hours or three days?

You never wrote and someone I should know
is opening a letter, come by sea
by tears whose bottom sand
is covered with storms and under my heart
a birdcall becomes in time a stone
a shepherd's hush held to my lips

--I am wading into these breakers
for the darkness that seals
as a tree still licking its bark
opened by mistake --I am slowly

into your eyes, each step
a still warm leaf sent off
opening into skies
into foothills and your eyes.

Simon Perchik

This poem is appearing in the Poetry Journal
Premiere Generation Ink. Volume 1 Number 2

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