Bush

Bend me backward—but
this bush holds thorns. You will have to carry me
up the stairs.

Careful now;
do not spill. I am full of slippery ghosts,
and harbor a phantom in my left eye.

If you drop me, I won’t break.
But I will crack, and animals
will leap from me.

If we make it
to the bedroom, don’t set me down. Don’t dare
place a lip upon me.

Merely tip me forward, until I find
my footing; you’ll know when, for a brush of my toe
is enough to split the globe.

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