What a strange crop :the smell

spread out the way this mud is plowed

already warmed by the descent


used to one, one more, one more

though you are circling it

with your mouth left open


holding nothing, moving nothing

nothing but this dirt

no longer thirsty, confident


--what struggles here is the rain

still on the ground, thinning out

as lakes, at most as lips and distances


--here you’ve got to bend

to get a closer grip, pull up

this hillside broken loose


and lean into where this water takes you

handcuffed, smashed against the rocks

and on your knees more kisses.











apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik