The laces are new -they were cut
By Simon Perchik

The laces are new -they were cut
so a knot would hold my hand
and these shoes lead you across treetops

-this time you are flying, the shine
softer than where your shoes
wobbled, plunged, weightless

-I'm filling the air with knots
as if something you touched here
fell apart, knocking down walls

and sunlight -hold up your shoes
colder than masks -you become stronger
on fire again, flying

into the sun, close to my cheeks
-it's simple. I wear your shoes
to visit you

or when their shine almost circles
you visit me
begin that climb the dead

can never forget and what's still above
what's enormous. This time
you are flying across the silence

from that first death on Earth
-it must have been a bird. Even now
pointing out the trees

my arms lift you into the wind
-easy and the crowd below
holds fast, knows it can be done

are following on foot, unafraid
their faces ridged, fixed :the dead
without a sound gaining height and belong.

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