Already weightless these steps

don’t need the morning

back away as that emptiness


stars are used to

--you can hear them narrowing

creaking and from behind


wait for the sun to open fire

flash past your forehead

though you can’t make out


the week or year or the cloud

that knows you’re there

comes for you between more rain


and mountainside still standing

no longer growing grass

can’t love or remember


--you hide the way this attic

opens inside a door

that is not a flower


--an iron knob

that turns away nothing

and in your arms nothing, nothing.




apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik