And the Earth leans against you

from inside, starts its turn

hand over hand --you empty each box


slowly, smoothing the sides

then once it’s dark

begin to dig for air


and wait for the corner

half cardboard, half taking you in

and no one home though here you are


opening a door the way every star

smells from dying winds and grass

--you unpack, thinner and thinner


as if the air is losing heart

bending its climb and doors

no longer by the hundreds.





apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik