*
It never begins, you
carry off this rain
not yet dry enough to be afraid
--there’s no sky either
just your reaching down
and for the hundred hundredth time
this tombstone is still sharp
though what you touch
is too wide, stays soft
and what falls through
still sifts for dirt
that won’t come closer
is already bleeding
and in your heart
as sand and thirst.
apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3