Upside down, as if this cup
was once a blossom
would overflow with the tears
mourners fill then row ashore—
it’s empty, close to the grass
though her grave is still damp
from this hillside washing over it
scraping from these headstones
a lighthouse for each wooden boat
pulled from the sea—you heard
a trumpet when the cup capsized
is done, put down its sound
as if there was nothing to lower
that wasn’t crushed on these rocks
still trying to lift, one after another.
