It takes numerous forms,
not just some flat expanse
where the moon looks at itself
from time to time: for instance,
a liter bottle of soda, a plastic tub
that used to hold a gallon of ice cream;
a tin drum in the yard, mouth open
to the rain gutter. They say hair
washed in this water is softer.
That a body sudsed in rain remembers
what it used to be before hurt.
Salt pours itself into a glass.
Sugar does the same. Water’s impervious
to their charms and keeps its own
counsel. Once, in a far-flung town,
a singer asked where she could get a sip
of water to cool her parched throat
before a performance; they led her
to a bathroom. I don’t know what
happened. I don’t know if the song
held more of the need to be quenched or if,
obedient, it took the shape of that moment.