Public Republic

Simon Perchik

Photo: visualpanic

This grass left for dead, the mower
idling into its slow descent
the way pilots are still trained

to roll and up-side-down
in the reflection you can recognize
the bridge being bathed in a river

older than those songs that help you forget
–it’s not for nothing after all
–this aimless footpath

fallen from some tower though just ahead
is the wind itself
straining to lift a small cinder

no one uses anymore
was left in the open
still reaching down to be lost

in the flickering light from galaxies
–to be safe in your shadow
no longer struggling with the ground.