by Simon Perchik
It takes stone though your breathheats by waiting for something to changethe way sunlight inhales, unnoticedis floating alongside these gravesin riverbeds and kisses –stonecan save her now that the groundhas more time to counteach mourner coming by empty handed looking for someone else –stone! without the rush, left in the openin a pillow filled with mountains, not yetthe one day more as a ready-made holemelting your lips for their brightness –every afternoon is blindedby a stone made from wood as if smoke could start overand you hear a long ago namerising out the light and emptiness.
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