Volume 20, Number 3


Just off the ground and the mower
needs adjustment, its wing
icing again, its heading

relentless, the crew struggling
—a sudden turbulence :dark clusters
gutting the air —from high up

I need more gloves, a shallow turn left
or right or everything I touch
bends into a battered circle :the blade

as if my breathing too, full throttle
and under this cowling, end over end
doors frozen shut, the men

can't slip clear —there's a small knob
and the wing dips almost as painfully
skids to dodge the vague stones
the sky I'm sure I saw.

—Simon Perchik