Simon Perchik
The dead branch writing on this wall
never learns --a
name
could change
things, pleaded with
the way a steady
rain
softly from among
the others
reaches down to
promise in writing
--all summer and
the name
hardly begun, the
bare tree
grieving for the
one name
whose shadow is
the sky all night
taking so long
--the leaves
couldn't hold on
any more
and what's left
little by little
the wall becomes
your name
broken in pieces.
