Simon Perchik (bio)

This feeble kitchen match
leans the way a magician’s cane
strikes the stage in flames
doves and all, shaking more dust
from that same darkness
each match shares with stars
left behind, in there somewhere

and your chest snap open
for those jack-in-the-box flowers
stretching out, confident
the dirt is warm, has no other use

—you will explode, give up everything
become an offering and the ice under you
weaker and weaker set out
for any minute now and your arm.

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