More rich foam: its first meal
        still warm and the child just born
        reaches across the wake
        for its sweet mountain stream
        sinking a few feet from its lips
        as a chain still lets the first link
        hold on for all: each wave too heavy
        floating away on the soft sea floor

        --from this sand the sea
        is fed, crawls off to dry
        though it still licks its young
        still saying goodbye
        dragging its waterfalls

        and lullaby and the child just born
        blinks but it's too late
        --that first kiss

        and each day since
        empties our eyes: the sea
        stacking one tear over another
        walls-in the sun that can't leave
        that nourishes the withered night
        just by reaching over
        the way you still kiss, returned and open.

Copyright © Simon Perchik, 2004. All Rights Reserved.