Could be this mop shimmering
the way bottom stones are soothed
by streams smelling from volcanoes
and wood, though the floor
is burning your feet with moonlight
–could just as easily be this pail
circling for hidden leaks and seashells
scented with water, and the room
that has nothing more to lose
is looking for a place to dry
that is not your mouth or the air
you dead need to put out the fires
by pressing down on your lips
where there’s no trace or a corner
that will close by itself, become dirt,
embrace the long, wooden handle
all night side by side as if you still hear
the falling back into silence, and your arms.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The B Poems published by Poets Wear Prada, 2016. For more information, including free e-books, and his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities,” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.
Editor’s Note: Image of snail shells (Pexel photo) and the National Park Hawaii Volcanoes Lava Flow.