By John Glenday

Each dusk is the final dusk.  Late mists

forget themselves above the lake.

A crowd of hemlock, shoulder-close and motherly

whispers as its own reflection drowns.

Somewhere not hear, a loon calls

out the word for darkness twice,

then turns into the silence and its song.


I kneel where the water frays, and from my hands

build the cracked prayer of a cup.

Let me drink once more; just a little –

one mouthful, one sip would be enough.

Just this time let my hands not leak.

Let them be brimming when I raise them

to my lips, like this.