*

Simon Perchik

What chance does this moon have
the way for a few hours every day
not one drop makes it back, held down

as the thirst that never lets go
and you swallow hillside into hillside
– a few hours! that’s all and the moon

still trying, takes from your jawbone
some ancient sea half marrow, half
no longer flowing through as moonlight

heavier and heavier with the entire Earth
backing you up when the moon is lifted whole
from inside your mouth, to be returned

then gather you in for the fire
that is nothing without the night sky
still claiming you with headwinds and rain

even when there is no rain
– there is not fire left though the moon
never dries, clings to your lips

the way this dirt drinks as much as it can
and everything it touches is want
– you don’t have to empty all these flowers.