Everything on this wall clouds over
at first, a window then opens
swallowing the sky mid-air
though here you are, hammering
– this picture frame was already too heavy
is pressing against the glass
as the unbearable sorrow when its likeness
can only be found in wood
where you no longer hear your fingers tighten
from soaking in the sweat that clings to a nail
bent and bleeding then hidden in back, holds on
to what it remembers falling from the sky
as one after another, yet there it is
in drops – don’t you hear them telling you
to step back from her photograph.
Simon Perchik's poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.