I woke early to earliness.
The stars are in their upside-down cup.
Do you think to find a cup yourself?
Cup your ears to hear what’s close to the house,
milling the darkness into its own darkness.
Cup your body foetal, to an image of birth. Of death.
All the cups of the house cup darkness now,
not even holding their breath.

The cup looks nearly immortal,
whether it breaks or not. I mean the idea.
The physical idea of what is happening
when a cup hosts air or a liquid or anything.
First, it was just a stone by the river, a depression
in the center. Something almost human
staring at this, drawn to it. Then scooping
water with its hand…no, it’s almost a paw.
The miracle of that space in the stone,
that strange kindness of holding, keeping
what we need. But wide open to the sky,
losing what is there. Giving it away every day,
to wind or sun or long animal tongue.

And the smart animal returns later, maybe
the next morning or afternoon, and feels a twinge
when the cup is empty. The dream of filling
something becomes everything….