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Three Poems, by Simon Perchik


Blurred yet something with wings
tucked in its eggs and your skin
swollen for a single cry

to feed on a morning close by
with a warm bowl held out
dripping the way flowers

still blossom in pain
careful not to leave the ground
—it could have been

some hillside, after a long flight
carrying your arm as a stronghold
for rain not yet dying down

between strangers and shelter
—it happened so fast
there’s nothing left to pull back.

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