And though this bottle is empty, by Simon Perchik

And though this bottle is empty
it drifts on by as if the grass
puts its trust in the thirst

for sunlight and butterflies
–drop by drop you water this grave
till it smells from salt

then sent off, comes back
night after night as a wave
telling you where, what happened.

Simon Perch’s poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere. He resides in East Hampton, NY.

© 2016, Simon Perchik