With its feeble hold this hillside

--a simple bond though your shadow

is pulling loose -–this dirt


won’t keep its promise

as if nearness means nothing

even when you expect the sun


handful by handful, back

to warm itself

yet you still come here alone


can almost make out the breasts

the eyebrows and on this mound

the forehead you long for, the eyes


that rise from this leftover darkness

as two mornings and at night

two nights, closer and closer.

apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik