The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Simon Perchik

*

There is no tunnel, you crawl

the way a turtle takes hold

and from the sidewalk a dry breeze

smelling from salt and two in the afternoon

—the crowd thinks the cup is for beggars

fill it so the air inside

will rise and you can breathe

one more time :a tide

lets you survive in the open

though one cheek is dragged

over the other till your mouth

becomes a shell —all you can do

is drink from it

do what skies once did

filled with thirst and emptiness.