A Wishing Well

I dreamt of you as a wishing well that dried,
not one with an old bucket and a crumbling wall,

more like that fountain that you find in Rome
but saw it empty, derelict, exposed,
losing its depth consumed with all that need of wishing,
its stone bed scorched, a wizened water snail
next to the minted comet-tail of scattered coins.

I had a vision of a sparkling fountain
rising through spray of turned up rainbows, and
of any wish unwished, for it had tempted fate.