shot glass
title
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Simon Perchik


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You cup your hands around the rim
as if time no longer wants you
though the mountain spring that died

couldn't have weighed much more itself
still smells from side to side
and reaching out as waves – you drink

over and over empty the water
so wherever it shows up it's cold
will hide you now that death

is so thirsty, fits into a glass
can be seen still gathering
has your eyes, owes you nothing.