Between these graves and every Sunday

you bring the wide, floppy hat

--on each visit, the red scarf


before the light she asks for

cools, hardens into the back and forth

that cradles each small stone


--she’s not interested in stone

and tells you so though it’s not Sunday

--it’s not any day, just winter


stone bars and you wait outside

for the gate to show up

or how long she’s been in.



apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik