Between two fingers the dirt
By Simon Perchik

Between two fingers the dirt
still greets these dead
coming by with open eyes
then rain that can't hold on
 

—this strange handshake
over and over warms your arm
though the sun fell short
missing the Earth
 

the way a hillside stops growing
if no one touches it
as flowers whose colors
can no longer remember
 

or face this arm
the one you bring too near
chosen for its memory
its power and sound.

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