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


24 poems by simon perchik