By Simon Perchik

*

My arm and the night
half around–this star
carried downstream

lets me rinse its light
beside those great rivers
the lame once every year

crawl childlike, led–this star
still points and all the world
morning at last. I don't know when.

Every stream is waiting
till another will flow from its side

slightly open, afraid to speak
holding my hand and its shadow

not yet trampled by moss, by darkness
by sunken eddies and warts–my hand
blurred, limping to the riverside

–all night though my bones don't soften
twisting even tighter–I never let on
the morning must know I'm here.