*
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