*
Simon Perchik
You belittle the directions, this paint
needs thinning —it’s not safe
though for now you hold on more than ever
the way a flower inside another flower
spreads out when you add rainwater
as if this wall was still on fire
surrounding you, yelling at you to paint
with the window open, jump! the air
has nothing left, needs time, years
—the paint is new at this
can’t dry by itself, half brush marks, half
motionless, already those exhausted stones
no longer overflowing near the dead
—the broken glass helps, emptiness helps
once on the ground and alongside your hands
remembers to enter this room back and forth
as if you were being watched, counted on
are sweeping it clean for later and later.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker, and elsewhere.