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Grey Sparrow Journal and Press, as of January 31, 2018 will move to

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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Again my eyes leaning down

as somehow mountain slopes

will overgraze the sun

and all that's left

is snow, is my voice

whose only predators are stones

and places where the sea

drops suddenly, smashed.

How do I know it was the tears?


It could have been my voice

pushed from a cliff-whispered

to send back one more night

that wouldn't hurt-in the dark


it's hard to remember those Paleozoic storms

the first snowflake leaning from its nest

not sure if it would fly

or crawl or if these stones one day


-it could have been the small bird

trying to hold this pail by its lip

half crankcase oil, half sky

half how the hell could it happen

and where was the moon

who could have taught it

how to hold one breath forever


-it could have been the slack the Earth

dreads, all its life, every day

lifting, adjusting, adjusts even its axis

as if the night has more viscosity

and light was slowing down -it could have been


but I forgot my first breath :the fiery clap

 sending each star further and further

still trying to fly out

-I forget the thunderous birth that fills

all our tears at once -little bird


this gooey slick you thought was night

now hides my hands to the wrists, lifting

is useless but the snow still tries

I still try -galaxies all night hurled

from a cliff that you might return

that you might be morning and again.

                                   -Simon Perchik