The see-through cup, fragile,
holds nothing, nothing till water
is cradled and finds its shape,
existing but not possessing,
then both dissolve into drinking,
as lips touch glass,
drawn in by the inevitable thirst
of the body as container of water
from the rain that fell Friday,
fell from history into every mouth
that ever opened, as water to flesh,
then flesh to water, passing through,
translucent.
The body as a brief luminous arrangement.
Chiasm.
The sky, the earth, the sea,
rivers, lakes brimming.
The water ancient.
This water now.
Nothing here is missing.
Everything’s already gone.
Complete, and always coming.
The human: a passing syllable inside
a much longer utterance
from water, earth, and sky.
Being is in the act of drinking, observing.
Soft, open.

1/2/2026