To the Artist's Page To our home page
To Simon Perchik's previous piece To Simon Perchik's next piece
I breathe across and the sun gripped to the slippery center making its way through the mist --my eyeglasses need the wash the cooling breath as when soup poured from one cauldron, then back until black --each lens is darkened by the sun and the Bausch-Lomb Company Inc has the patent, prints its number takes my hand --the frame fills and emptied as if its glass was made from shallow sand and fires and numbers and the rain I can't see --takes my eyes --it's a rain that will become stones, will be every word said twice --someone, something, somehow the echo is heavier, after awhile there's snow. Granite is made this way --by the dead, a stone darkening till even the sun falls away, has no light left and the clean snow on your shoulders. With each dry rag I try to restore a sail whose only hope is where sand comes to the surface --I try and the sun falling on its side --what I rub off each lens is a great sea blown off course --it's beginning to be a joke --either I lose each pair or break their frame in half --how long can they live in these nets tied fast to some grey stone still breathing.
To the top of this page