*

With each glove almost the same
You look face to face
For a place to jump

-you don't see the bridge
though these weeds
are used to winter

slip from your fingers
the way this sky
no longer has room

and each raindrop
suddenly white, already stone
grown huge: each floe

inscribed and with a single name
warms this hillside
midair, brings these dead

a river that flows again
filled as if its shoreline
is pulling you down, shows you where.
                           
SIMON PERCHIK