? SLAB | Sound & Literary Art Book

Issue 8

Poetry

Simon Perchik

*


Every wall has a resting place
kept warm though in the dark
it drains, overgrown with cracks

and grasses :you brush on footpaths
the way every greenhouse is nourished
heated by the mouth on your mouth

—another coat seems reasonable
so you paint this wall over and over
till what’s left standing overflows

never dries into that slow love song
from before the sun grew huge
it would fit into this room, had time

to stay and night not yet surrounded
falling behind, from far away
weeping into nothing at all.