Cups: 8 Poem by Robin Blaser

There is no saluation. The
harvesters with gunny sacks
bend picking up jade stones.

(Sure that Amor would appear
in sleep. Director. Guide.)

Secret borrowings fit into their hands.

Cold on the tongue.
White flecks on the water.

These jade pebbles are true green
when wet.

On the seventh night, the branches parted.
The other replied,
How photographic. Amor doesn't appear
on demand. He's more like a snake skin.
If he fits, he lets you in
or sheds your body against the rocks.

I slept in a fort.
My bed pushed up against the log
enclosure. At 3:00 his ankles pressed
against each side of my head.
When I woke crying for help
he rose near the kitchen door
dressed as a hunter.

The other replied,
Amor born like a cup trembles
at the lip. Superstitions fit
into your hands.

Thou has returned to thy house.

The other replied,
Torn loose from the eaves,
the blood trembles at the lips.

Nine fetters on they feet
Nine crossings of the street

Nine suppers where they meet
Nine words of loss repeat
this and that

Nine hunters cross the field
Nine lovers yield
their right of way

Two came fighting out of the dark.