This comb stretching out
is dragged across your brain
the way a butterfly migrates

-the same side to side
fixed in its wings as a place
it has never been before

though under the mirror a sea
follows you from the beginning
with weeks at a time, surfaces

for the waves it left behind
-by the thousands, impaled
on some vague wind just now

flickering on your forehead
as the hair that’s kept in water
for directions and a leaving.

About the Author: Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” and a complete bibliography, please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.