With each hand the same turn
you learned to take apart
put together, tighten

and though the wrench holds on
the tire’s slowly going flat
the only way you know how

– you let go, circle
spring-like, for keeps
around the pin-hole leak

already planes falling into place
as a training song from the 40s
louder and louder, struggling for air

– at last the tire goes down
half under the ground
where you need both wrists

the way flowers wilt and each breath
takes in more smoke, still black
on course, end over end, almost there.

– Simon Perchik