this broken concrete can’t shut down
and cool –your shadow’s too old
leans down and though the wall
falls closer and closer
it tries to rest your face
–a sleeping face
still circling where your forehead
mingles with rocks and weeds
–even your grave goes to pot
lets anyone point at it
as if sunlight could urge you
to spread out inside a sky
that has no days left, is lifted
face to face with the ground.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poetry has appeared in appeared in Partisan Review, the New Yorker and elsewhere.