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45 perchik Simon Perchik two poems Air laughed in and stored :tires coating the cold road, "Do you how loud we sang for that front seat?" The song never returned. Our dinner dry. We wait at table ends. Can't that landlord fix the slam each time you enter home? The attic is crating itself, I watch at attention, hands in pockets :the holes helmets, their straps tighten, the buckles convulsing shut. I don't remember my tie .corpse knotted between two rows ¡buttons drawn by wings .wheels turning through slow banks, I flew two holes :my eyes my pants fasten on this dark :pockets ripped — a uniform, by itself entering this wooden box. ...


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