by Simon Perchik

Till the darkness lets go a path and you
lift both arms, one lower so the spin
begins clockwise, shapes those waves

where one hand can't keep up
is pulled by the other—you dance
the way the earth reaches up for air

takes hold one arm half foam
half gills, half faster and faster
as if you too would drown

Let go the clear head wind
squeezed from this dirt and reeling—
you lift till some well

reaches for one knee wobbling nearer
to the other and the dead
lean from this dirt stirred to exhaustion.

About the Author:
"Process is all for Perchik, who has turned himself into almost pure imagination, purer than mere existence, to help us reclaim our buried selves."    --Edward Butscher

Simon Perchik's poetry has been published in several magazines which include The Nation, Partisan Review, Poetry and The New Yorker. His latest book, a collection of poetry called, Letters To The Dead, can be obtained through St. Andrews Press in Laurinburg, North Carolina.