Another stomp though it’s sunlight
dissolving into dirt the way all noise
wears out, limps and at your side

two radios, one covered with mud
the other bit by bit chips through
the small stones inside each ear

and in-between, who’s alive? who’s dead?
-who listens for that static
still on fire as this shovel

not yet exhausted, entangled
with weeds that can’t take it anymore
break apart and the unbearable heat

from blossoms the sun empties into
as rain and more rain
till you splash in the sound

not yet your shadow
though one foot blackens first
dragging you under and inches apart.

Simon Perchik