As if this dirt can’t overflow
has nothing behind it
except your fingertipsfurther and further apart


--you look for the waterline

the way each morning dries

closing in on you, half crater

half while this clay jar


begins to drink again

with its mouth and the flower

at home with you, here and there

covers you and nothing between.






apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik