Simon Perchik *

To not hear her leaving

and though this snapshot is wrinkled

it’s carried off in a shirt pocket


that never closes, stays with you

by reaching out as eyes

waiting for tears and emptiness


—you remember who filled the camera

except there was sunlight—a shadow

must say something, must want


to be lifted, brought back, caressed

the way a well is dug for the dead

who want only water and each other


—you try, pull the corners closer

over and over folded till you are facing

the ground, the dry grass, her.


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