We stay up all night, tipping our heads
back to drink the amber liquid in the cups.
Rain falls. Sudden cold speaks of summer’s end.
We sift and dredge for warmth in our cups.
We turn the feverish pages, we read words from each
others’ lips. We drink them up, like sustenance from a cup.
The hourglass keeps time. The second hand on the clock
chimes the hours. Trickle after trickle fills a cup.
The days wear their implacable face: not punishing,
not rewarding, indifferent to offerings in the cup.
Do not always sorrow, do not fear. Go forward into joy.
Everything eventually fades, like foam in the cups.
In response to Via Negativa: Apart.