All the pieces must be found

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All the pieces must be found

By Simon Perchik

All the pieces must be found, make
a list, a proper burial
--when you fold the paper
you send ahead some moonlight --start
with the formal Dear: a fine suit
helps when you ask directions --start out

as if you too will lose the way
will soon be hungry
though you sit at a table --now
while you can still lift your hand
to your forehead, to the fire
that knows once underground
how heavy names become, harden
and the stones crowded together in a well
that never comes back --use ink

slowly, like a mourner --your list
followed --the dirt too
bent back and forth, wears out
politely, with manners --you send ahead
and from your sheet its light
crumpled, dried
and the longing for some hiding place.