What chance does this moon have

the way for a few hours every day

not one drop makes it back, held down

as the thirst that never lets go

and you swallow hillside into hillside

--a few hours! that’s all and the moon

still trying, takes from your jawbone

some ancient sea half marrow, half

no longer flowing through as moonlight

heavier and heavier with the entire Earth

backing you up when the moon is lifted whole

from inside your mouth, to be returned

then gather you in for the fire

that is nothing without the night sky

still claiming you with headwinds and rain

even when there is no rain

--there is no fire left though the moon

never dries, clings to your lips

the way this dirt drinks as much as it can

and everything it touches is want

--you don’t have to empty all these flowers.

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.