A losing toss though the dirt


A losing toss though the dirt
hears you stretching out
for nourishment—the thud
grows wild now, every rug
smells from bare wood
and the unforgiving heaviness
pressed against a door
that wants more room
—you have to splash each floor
the way the Earth is pieced together
expects something underneath
to lean forward as the sound
its shadow makes from your arm
heavier and heavier, almost through
can’t be seen from the air.

Simon Perchik's poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker, and elsewhere.