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At night you can tell the stonesTo Simon Perchik's previous piece     You can still make out the waterfallTo Simon Perchik's next piece

I run my fingers, favor granite
the stones' stone though it's now
too heavy, its blood
almost looks like mine and you
still wandering among the stones
the banging doors left out to die

--inside your headstone the dark
as in every womb its unyielding cry
and mountains lifted closer --my fingers
pointing, one more cave and sacred winds
kept till death was needed

--you don't hear the sunlight
breaking the world in half
for stones, the mornings without you.

You are that trembling, tangled
--my breath too
among the unfinished cries
and the imagined light.

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