Simon Perchik

*

They become the dim light
in some empty theater, the aisle
deeper and deeper--nothing is left in me

that I can use for whispers
--what you hear are kisses
akmost invisible--I close my lips

to give off a great darkness
the way each star sets out
for its first cry, quivering

in terror--my weaker lip
soothed till its shadow
lets go: each Fall

exactly one hour
only with stars
raked into piles and the ground

--what you hear is my mouth
made blind and the wind going by
--only the air takes root

and bedrock holding fast
and on my lips
pitted from corners and distances.