You mourn the way this sand

has no strength, keeps warm

between one day and another


and your closed hands

that need the place

left by a small stone


dropping slowly in water

though what rests here

is the emptiness already mist


and nothing starts again

--you dig as if this beach

blossoms once your fingers


open and these dead

lose their way among the flowers

that no longer come home


--you kneel easily now

pulled down by your shadow

following head first as rain


heavier and heavier

tracing a face with just your lips

and worn out nod.







apocrypyphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik