by Simon Perchik

Again both hands! this pen
half foam, half frost
half held for its heft
its breaking apart :the pair

useless, my left arm
the way every heart empties
from just one side though here

is where as if by changing hands
you return to read the light
and under this pen
its waterfall —always two hands

scrapping more paper
for its grass
twigs and dry stones.

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.