Simon Perchik
Its power comes from this froth
–never mind there’s no caldron
to make sense, you drink
listening to bubbles work a cure
are healed when the fountain
touches you, smelling from gauze
and nursing homes –the old
have no choice, they let the faucet
run and for a while
wait at the sink for something
they’re not sure
–they have no memory
though the drought is always there
shaped as a stone reaching out
for kisses whose lips are the breath
rising year by year from all water
and once in your mouth, by magic
becomes the word for waiting
with both eyes closed –you drink
what must be your shadow
floating off half foam, half waterfall
scraping your throat on the rocks
–all the way down a spray
made ageless, washing over you.