If we were arrested,
before the porcelain
could be broken,
we’d be penniless.

Bulls don’t have pockets,
they’re put into a china shop,
with nothing but the sheen
of their horns and hooves.

Stood there, admiring,
tapping the blown glass,
or precious momentary panes,
fragility, like hearts on sleeves

Waiting, asking to be broken
between the arid cracks
of oasis, or lack thereof,
no blood or fountains for miles.

Bum bum, or whatever,
onomatopoeia is lost ,
like the words to love poems
written with butterfly ulcers.