The Cresset
A Review of Literature, Fine Arts, and Current Affairs
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Simon Perchik (bio)

You sprinkle the dead, closer than usual
as if something inside this rock
is just now learning to survive

without roots, already talks
about lying awake, afraid your fingers
will crack it open for the mouth

to cover the one that’s started
the way night over night your hands
spread out as the distance

that empties only into river water
so it comes up each morning
held in place, not yet breathing.

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