I unholster my arms & dance across water.
Not crushed yet. The bitch’s
face loses color; he runs back to check his rainforest program
since the jug's unlocked, to no product hewn.

I’m still not finished, he says, like a bitch. We
telepath only in the mothher tongue, careful with words
while there’s no one else to sulk with.
The jug we’re speaking to is not audible, hard of hearing –

It’s just a backstory anyway, mordant or
morbidly stressed in an observatory
with a hygienic view forward, a view
that cannot be overcome in synonyms.