Morning found the cups
turned over in the grass,
each holding
a little dark.
The masks dried
on the low wall,
wine at the mouth
like an old blessing.
No one remembered
the hymn.
Still the house
kept one note
in the next room,
too low
for any throat.
Only a tendril
had entered
during the night.
No leaf.
No root
in the yard.
Yet each door
bore the touch
from within.
Under the table
a flute lay split.
No breath
stood near it.
Beside it,
something purple
had softened
out of speech.
We had set it down
as a question.
Before morning
it had opened
like a fruit
no hand had blessed.
Or else
the answer
had been waiting
inside it.
By noon
the flies came.
They gathered
at the mouths
of the masks
as if for bread.
We let them.