Volume 21, Number 3


You are weeding glass, eyes closed
spray the way each night is flooded
and from the darkness another sun
is harvested with just one finger
and mist —you squeeze till the window
ices over your fist and the rag

is choking —who complains except this bug
sniffing for dust from some lake on Mars
or the moon or the sill half stranglehold
half frozen, half lost

—it's here in the directions
and though outside every farmer
inside you comfort the pest
cover it with towels, curtains

—it likes looking out the window
at the ghostly cloud you can buy
from any hardware store
—it's amazed how openly
you gas what gets in the way

and follows the stench from a rag
piled one behind the other
as if leaving for good and you
are too weak to open your eyes
are sifting the dust for someone you know.

—Simon Perchik