And though there are no planes


And though there are no planes
it’s still a room, is standing by
has winds side by side
the way this fleece-lined jacket
never dries, hangs from the ceiling
around and around, loosening
in the ice, struggling with moons
and the drop by drop from your chest
left open for more sky
points to rain, to engines, wings, oil
no longer spreading through these walls
as the dim light near the window.



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