Title Request #6

Dear cups, it is below suppertime
now and the house blues have
started drawing their arches from one
end of the sky the other.

And all the dust of the house
comes slanting through blinds
like ordinary angels. And the rooms
are quiet, quiet, quiet,

as quiet as the first stars'
quiet burning. And even
on the damp grass, we hear
a hush, baby, hush. Dear cups,

dry now, waiting to be put away--
hide yourself now, in the sweet
dark cabinets where the whole world's
purpose is holding: a drink,
a spoon, and the hands that hold them.