Volume 30, Number 4


Inside this monument a rain
it doesn’t want, coming by
with winds and the flag

this way and that reaching out
as if the war ended
smelling from all your letters home

wet –they had to be wet, scented
with thunder and kisses
left on the ground, already

this harvest –stones becoming
other stones and blood
that no longer returns to your heart.

—Simon Perchik