SIMON PERCHIK

*

We boards never stop waving goodbye
drying the drenched coffin, never forget
the handshake –the saw
A gentleman, always in a straight line
–the hammer nailing up leaves, clouds
stars –it’s the nails that stay too long
that dress like messengers
like the iron name on an oven door

too heavy, the nails
bend :a rain, a flickering grip
shaking this shack from inside

FROM THROW-AWAY LUMBER, AUGUST 1983 :a tattoo
stinking from the dump
from rickety, worn out seaports
from nails that wait
as stars are named
to give us hope, the homeward
that never stopped shaking –we boards

never finish, we creak
here, there, another nail
to brace the dimming corner, another nail
to fill where one once fit
before it rusted out

–we never stop waving at holes
never let go, shaking trees
under the broken glass and apple rinds
under the stars that are left
–we built this shack
from the collapsed :the nights
unwanted, worn away, the wobbling
who understand why there’s no door
why every board
followed the other here.