push me through the floors;
I will break the boards,
stain the wood,
and when I try to shape my mouth
I blow a bubble with right angles:
I cannot speak but with my hands,
those roving birds that court south.
Oh, you are yoked, you are rooted,
but I have seen you chase vermilion,
your twin horns balancing oblivion,
your nimble hooves confused
and accidentally crushing.
I may spill the pail,
empty the grail
and still you will never end up with nothing.
Why would you need the filling of a lover?
I will be the one tipped over and cracked,
perhaps,
as your toes stay wreathed in clover.
