You have this kinship, the limp

balances you and the Earth

already blossoming


with nothing under it

though you lift one foot

closer to the other


hillside after hillside

the way mud settles and clots

--you’re used to losing, come


so this cane can grab your hand

almost in time and what’s left

above the ground, knows


you’re drowning, in rain

stops and starts, in dirt

and tells you everything.




apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik