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.