Just below the surface one arm

loosens in front the other

the way rock still breaks apart


for air --this bench leaks

needs nails and the wobble

full blown, half beaten into it


half by your lips growing here

as grass that never strikes bottom

--kisses! needs cheeks to lock


when they come close and drown

--wood is useless now

though you count backwards


lifting the bench, empty it

on the ground that longs for you
and one bare hand as its own.








apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik