Fall 2010, Volume 9

Poetry by Simon Perchik

And Under the Warning Lights

though every other one is missing
lost over some pothole—the roadcrew
with long, curved handles
and the macadam raked the way a seed
splits open, more and more the air
it was once, still empty, baiting
some thunderbolt to strike again
down the middle—you are making coffee

—this goes back, the beans
ground just minutes ago and you
are facing me, can tell by my eyes
your eyes will grow the half
that has no pain and yet this street
has no center line, each house
is reunited with the one across
and the blinking lights
still looking for their dead
even in the daytime.


BIO: Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker and elsewhere. For more information, including his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” and a complete bibliography, please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.