Simon Perchik

*

And the sweep
as if more and more sun
--you either hear it or you don't

the way a whistle from far off
again and again returning
to its bleached railbed
as if it forgot how trains
fall away and in the distance
the sun louder than picking up speed.

There's no exact time
or where the light begins its curve
though the sound is familar
bleeds in your mouth
tastes from volcanoes, years.

You never hear it
or you do, waiting in tunnels
and loneliness--a clear light
wider than anything that lives

till nothing you say
is heard or forgotten
or the sharp tears
rushing across your throat.