Simon Perchik

These stones still breathing
chill your mouth too, sealed
in whatever is started – you kneel

at each construction site: this grave
centered so the light inside
helps you find the frostline

and in time the building
no longer moves though you inhale
side to side the way mourners

root each wall arm in arm
and no more air – what’s left
you breathe out as small broken bits

that even in winter come by
to talk, bring you lips
a number, a street, a place.