It never begins, you

carry off this rain

not yet dry enough to be afraid


--there’s no sky either

just your reaching down

and for the hundred hundredth time


this tombstone is still sharp

though what you touch

is too wide, stays soft


and what falls through

still sifts for dirt

that won’t come closer


is already bleeding

and in your heart

as sand and thirst.





apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik