*
Row after row
--it’s your usual vineyard
overrun the way mourners
will always lean too far
are already in clusters
holding on to a stone
as if a sharper knife
could fall through
and deep inside each vine
leave no one to walk past
though you come for work
with wobbling fingers
that no longer make you sad
--you pluck each pebble
trying not to touch the dead
show up as if they
would never let you leave
with nothing in your mouth
except as some seedling
just planted and on your lips
the dirt is somehow sweeter
growing itself into arms
and legs and kisses, by now
even in winter the stars.
apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3