By Simon Perchik

With your mouth closed

swallow though this rain

is already rain and further on

—you have a taste for darkness

fill your belly the way the Earth

each night escapes as a small hole

clings to one hillside

carried by another—you become

its grave, eat without fingers

without knees or the headlong dive

this dirt is used to, held down

and looking for more rain

for shoreline starting out

not yet a whisper, lost

cleared away and for your lips.