Public House maps the delirious landscapes of addiction. In poem after poem, Weir chronicles the mix of memory and mythology concocted between last call and first light. Between oblivion and sobriety. Between the pull of the bottle and the harder seductions of hope. Part dive bar karoake part confession booth breakdown, Weir writes with the rhythm of someone who's counted days, lost count, and started over too many times to count, who has learned recovery isn't a straight line but a mobius strip, a roundabout on which one must meet and lose many different versions of one's self.