Public Republic

Simon Perchik

Photo: claire1066

No one gets hurt, you pump
into a parachute, cup one hand
to float down, the other
as if water could rub off
the way the sky still gushes
from the once blue Earth
and your sleeve tearing apart

–faster and faster though you say
you want only the exercise
a cast-iron grip and somehow
you become stronger, move the well
closer –the deal is simple

you bring them air, bring back water
nobody takes a loss
though one arm is harder than oak
the other still sifting the deluge
for the soft invisible dead
turned inside out and even dew
tastes from too dark a place

–you bring back cold water
and widows returning everywhere
for mist, for ashes and hope
outbound, named after galaxies
after this bell-cold handle
that can’t shut off
even for the afternoon.