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Untitled (directions)

Simon Perchik

You have a feel for place to place
fresh from the ground and trains
stopping by to check the gates

each station and even in winter
arrives late, surrounded
by a drizzle against the window pane

and your hair can't dry, is trapped
inside this old hat half stone, half
crushed, half its hot-shot tilt

in so many directions at once
falling along the tracks
without a sound covers your forehead

lets it grow old and escape again
is possible without more rain
looking for help or the barracks.

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