Simon Perchik (bio)

This door half flowers
half wood in back some horse
dripping with saliva
wishes it was born dead

—the knob won’t turn
though the sun’s nearby
exhausted, wobbles
the way even light
withers, reaches an end
limps till the room
fits between your jaws

—they never let go
still drink from a bowl
that doesn’t move anymore
bends open for dirt
as if you had no thirst
no arms left or side to side.

Simon Perchik

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