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Simon Perchik

Don't ask the piano player
—with just one finger and the sand
crying in a dark place —he'll say

they're names, that every song
is a love song, you use
both arms at first.

What's left is his fingertip
dry, dragged, some spark
will ignite that desert, great dunes

bloodstained and his heart
back to pumping water, cool, clear
—don't ask how long ago

—he only points to that sea still on fire
deep red, to the thirst
you never stop hearing and wait.

Simon Perchik

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