With roots that glow in the dark
you approach each grave
the way all wood remembers
its first wish was moonlight
and overwhelmed the Earth
as mornings that grow only in dirt
–you lean across, breathing in
breathing out to exchange places
though the ground is decorated
with nothing more than itself
stubborn, still filled for campfires
and all around are the beads
outlined in the shadows, woven
slowly row by row, fondled
and endless songs about travelers.
Simon Perchik is a writer from East Hampton, NY. His work has been featured in The New Yorker, The Partisan Review, The Nation, and elsewhere.