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