There are vines and this bowl
keeps warm, my hands
outlining the soft bone between your neck
and its vague whisper: the spoon

wobbles, smells from apple
—I turn my head away
though no one is watching
—close my eyes to wish

and in the darkness
making its way to my lips
to this narrow bench
stretched out, within reach—a waterfall

midair: a table cloth
now more than ever
bent over, stains jutting from the ice
—I forget and the soup

green from birdsong and leaves
still warm where your breasts
finding again and my hands
sift the soup for bones

for what lasts the longest: one half
held up, somehow a wish
flows over the world
over this spoon and clanking.

Simon Perchik 

 

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