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Untitled

Simon Perchik

These stones still anxious, sip
stuttering as if they had no surfaces
or shoreline—syllable by syllable

you gather them up, not sure
they can bring the dead closer
though this sill is already wet

reaching out the way its paint
covers the Earth with a darkness
brought together piece then pieces

breathless, buckling and uncounted
—you bathe these stones in a broth
broken open, flowing to a stop.