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Simon Perchik

This machine counts for me
—all I do is poke
as if it adds too slow

has to be reminded
who is gathering and you
among the lakes and miles

and postcards
—I press its X the way kisses
—additions take so long.

All I do is touch your lips
and my finger brings to the screen
a silence, the woman

looks older than you
and I am older
though no one can hear
—so many levers
to lift the broken-down numbers
shaped the way your name

rests on a dark page
—you wrote how far
—there were numbers! and I look

everywhere
with tiny batteries
with fingers—on my knees.