You wash this floor the way winter

waits for its ice to stir

show more interest in coming closer


and the drowned --what bubbles up

is bottom sand though you drift

and further out more water


unable to dry so far from home

--a single drop by drop

wipes down the world and longing


--it’s how you sleep

leaking from your pores

this side then that breaking open


holding on to each other and now

without shape, making it through

as surfaces and nearer.







apocryphaltext Vol. 2, Nos. 2 & 3


24 poems by simon perchik