Your death seemed a neat trick
                              the crowd shoulder to shoulder
                              and in the center, eyes closed

                              as if some dirt makes a difference
                              knows how the first shovel full
                              is already spreading out

                              as hillside, as galaxies and echo
                              —without any string a tiny stone
                              pulls you back hand over hand

                              is charged the way this iron-sharp magnet
                              empties the Earth
                              becomes a flower, shaped

                              not by some restless butterfly
                              but from your dress giving birth
                              every Spring, half mist

                              half some child running underwater
                              and all that's left is thirst
                              for someday or another.

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.