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| Image source: Mirror (UK) |
Lost and without a wall you are unsure
what stays dark, what will move
once a flashlight is waved in front
and the plane in the picture begins to flicker
taking hold one hand all these years
dead, smothered under the frame
half dry wood, half morning
and though there's no sky yet
you are flying again
wobbled by winds no one sees anymore
making room in the fleece-lined glove
that can't tell where your fingers are.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013). For more information, including free e-books and his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities,” please visit his website.