You were just a kid, the newspaper
would fold over and over, easily
from one coast to another
though there was no salt
and you could track the map
by covering it with hillsides
still on the page as moonlight
that never leaves the ground
the way your death is mourned
face down, sifting the Lost & Found
for pebbles, for footsteps to make
another turn that is not the one.
About the writer:
Simon Perchik’s poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.
Image: “Boxes and Shadows” by Jared Foster. Oil on Canvas. 12 x 24 inches. By permission.