*

This shadow half iron, half

reaching out, breaking loose

--with both hands the hands

 

that no longer come for you

and in their place the dirt

grows back together

 

--in such a wound you die

in two places at the same time

make a path for the sky

 

you remember and underneath

--nothing but your arms

tearing each other apart

 

--handful by handful there’s room

for a little more shadow

a little more you can say.

 

>

.

 

 

apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3

 


24 poems by simon perchik