*
Already weightless these steps
don’t need the morning
back away as that emptiness
stars are used to
--you can hear them narrowing
creaking and from behind
wait for the sun to open fire
flash past your forehead
though you can’t make out
the week or year or the cloud
that knows you’re there
comes for you between more rain
and mountainside still standing
no longer growing grass
can’t love or remember
--you hide the way this attic
opens inside a door
that is not a flower
--an iron knob
that turns away nothing
and in your arms nothing, nothing.
apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3