You come by though the hole

has no other place to go

waits behind this ice-packed dirt


left over from when the sun

had no choice either, spreading out

as emptiness, the last resort


--this hole must sense it will die

the way the sun died, was buried

in the open, alone, circling down


strangely quiet with nothing to cling to

except the endless under and under

just to reach winter, to lift


and care for it --you visit the left out

built from years and years

but you are asking the impossible


with just your fingers --on tiptoe

would make it easier, anything

would make it easier.



apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik