Costel Iarca  © 2008 All Rights Reserved


The waves you don’t see anymore
are now these stones, enchanted
and the wind as every potter learns
waits for the water to glaze
tighten to bone and mountainside

—you can use the sea for a cliff
headfirst and already the hardening
—you don’t hear a splash
—the blue smoke from your heels
means you’re still diving

tossing one more dime to fill the spot
with spin or however waves, wing
over wing, thicken, drop as if the sea
needed more altitude and your dime

burning underwater—you don’t know
what the shimmering does
but let two stones bump—a fire
so heavy, bending the horizon
and always your arms overhead, on course
trailing a long, shameless if you were strong
if you were sky, if you could hear.




This granite has sea in it, each splash
a bell—water lets nothing forget
and drop by drop even stone goes mad

carves a small saucer for tears
for the tormented miles away
ringing out—I come to scream

to become a bowl and the white smoke
rising where your lips still drift
under the pounding snow—this stone

has tides in it, smells from rainfall
and decay and your arms too are in my throat
in the distance, in the tightening.


Simon Perchik
Copyright © 2008


Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, the New Yorker, and elsewhere. Rafts (Parsifal Editions) is his most recent collection. For more information, including his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” and a complete bibliography, please visit his website at

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