I unholster my arms & dance across water.
Not crushed yet, the narrator loses color,
since the jug's unlocked & to no product hewn.

I’m still not finished, he says, like a whining bitch. We
telepath only in the mothher tongue, careful with swearwords.
The jug we’re addressing is not sentient, hard of hearing.

The jug’s just a backstory anyway, mordant or
morbidly overstressed around the speakers’ bureau.
The bureau deploys Aristotelian systems going forward, systems extremes
that cannot be overcome by or within synonyms.