*
These waves still surface, not sure
it’s her lips that open and close, kept moist
though you can’t hear her voice
scented with rotting wood, weeds
and bottom sand --you row this boat
left, right, swinging your arms
half moonlight, half almost makes out
the words rising from empty shells
and the dress you first saw her in
--you need more arms, clear summer nights
from that inch by inch love song
heavier than these overgrown paths
no longer listening for her forehead
that once anchored the Earth
and water too knows what it has
smelling from a gentle stroke, another
another, facing the sky
it leaves behind, caressing her hair
her breasts, her shimmering –some nights
you can hear her, one by one
--some nights it’s colder, colder.
apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3