Row after row

--it’s your usual vineyard

overrun the way mourners


will always lean too far

are already in clusters

holding on to a stone


as if a sharper knife

could fall through

and deep inside each vine


leave no one to walk past

though you come for work

with wobbling fingers


that no longer make you sad

--you pluck each pebble

trying not to touch the dead


show up as if they

would never let you leave

with nothing in your mouth


except as some seedling

just planted and on your lips

the dirt is somehow sweeter


growing itself into arms

and legs and kisses, by now

even in winter the stars.



apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik