SIMON PERCHIK
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[“Some paths and not others...”]

Some paths and not others
the way a mole sensing where the sun
—in the dark
cutting across an open field
warmer, warmer
and the house where I was born
is standing in the middle

—to this day
one foot over the other
rebuilds the world
the few shadows
trying to find their way out
—I’m walking room to room
towards the oldest inch on Earth

and to this day all seas glow in it
as if my foot would point down
is again on fire
washed from a long way off.
 

[“And now these chimes...”]

And now these chimes
have that stench the dead—all night
the rain falls for them, calling out

till even the sky wants to fly
followed by armies.
What’s left is some mountain

a stream falling backward
and the sky again a star, its light
too slow—what you see

already passed—soldiers
need this mud, a climbing starts
and whoever looks up now

hears these slow chimes
lifting the Earth loose
from its first death
and the stillness.