Public Republic

Simon Perchik

Photo: Johan Larsson

Even in summer, long johns
and fleece-lined jackets
just in case — you drive across
though the silk scarf
already resembles the thinning air
this time without its wings

— your back is the only honest part
braced in place the way arrows
could always use more room
then work it out from there, it leans

to correct for wear and tear
for the stubborn crosswind
filling each stop sign
till suddenly a seat strap
cradles your descent, half haywire
half burnt to the ground.

You don’t trust the heat
–what could it remember
and the car stays ice-locked

–even in summer you won’t fix the leak
keep adding more air, more clothes
and while the engine idles
the creaking, cold strings
from around each corner
firmly between your fingers.