Simon Perchik
Photo: jar()
These sheep have no choice either
though even in summer
they still want to hear the truth
just by staring back at the grass
lifelike – it’s not for you
they hold power here, let go
nothing, not their fleece
not these sleeves, face to face
– you have no right to stand so close
as if a second sky would wave you past
make room, gather in the Earth
and lift: a small hillside
anything! to mourn – the dead
are here somewhere
not yet marble, not yet enough.
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