*

One hand held out --you expect

it to end pressed against a rain

already mixed with turns

 

and falling too far

--what you will remember

is how  this road died down

 

though you needed both hands

when it counted

the way these handlebars

 

still reach for a quiet place

and the sound your arms make

when holding close --she

 

would forget with you

what’s ahead, sometimes

dripping, sometimes she would lean

 

as far as possible

without touching your bones

or make room.

 

>

 

 

 

apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3

 


24 poems by simon perchik