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This bridge as if before its crash
By Simon Perchik

This bridge as if before its crash
it strafed the river, cut the tide
in half, the fog
heading back, the waves
looking out in terror—how much lower
till what’s left from this plane
finishes its dive
lets seabirds sweep the surface
for thermals, for engine sounds
and when the air is right
there’s a sense I bailed out in time

though the river has this stench
this bending over my body
and close to shore one foot
more than the other cringes, sweats
stumbles upstream—under that shoe
the throttle touches down
—I’m walking home, washed
and what’s left from the river
flows without a name
without my arms held out.