by Simon Perchik
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.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. Readers interested in learning more are invited to read Magic, Illusion and Other Realities at www.geocities.com/simonthepoet which site lists a complete bibliography
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