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This wall wants to roll over, rest
By Simon Perchik

This wall wants to roll over, rest
on its side, near the others—wrinkled
recklessly higher though the bombers
don’t come back—alone, cracked, this wall

once had wings to close, head down
half a city in its mouth—fire trucks
half across, calling for it, its missing
bricks
and roof—you don’t see my broken hand

but the wall, one by one till every brick
is red again—for forty years the sky
in open sea, sliding toward my hand
left standing, worn smooth, emptied.