And the gust that circles these graves

--they wander off, sweeping away

everything except the dirt


by now night after night

herded as small stones

though it’s no longer raining


--what takes you by the hand

is this mud-caked headwind

holding you back so nothing dries


looks just for your lips

taken one beside the other
from your face and later.






apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik