The rain climbing along your wrist

makes it seem easy --you breathe

through your hand, for two


--it helps to wet your eyelids

look where water has taken root

in pieces, knows how to grieve


the way your arm throws out

its still warm breezes and each morning

heavier --dirt learned this long ago


still fills your mouth with the word

for sister so nothing

can break without thirst


or blossom or with your hand

crushing you for more tears

and morning after morning.







apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik