One hand held out --you expect

it to end pressed against a rain

already mixed with turns


and falling too far

--what you will remember

is how  this road died down


though you needed both hands

when it counted

the way these handlebars


still reach for a quiet place

and the sound your arms make

when holding close --she


would forget with you

what’s ahead, sometimes

dripping, sometimes she would lean


as far as possible

without touching your bones

or make room.






apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik