It was Friday's Monday's June when I took lightning from the moon and placed it in your boots. The reflection of grass growing off the mirror, fifteen floors up, overflows and pushes me out the window. So you put a sock on twice and plug a folded funnel in the keyhole, then trip down the stairs again. Damn the lightning! Damn the boots! You see me lying there prostrate, and to relieve my shame you turn me, but the other side is macabre and glassy so you turn me back. I am a broom. You drag me backwards into a blond room. Grapes drop from the chandelier. May small granules imbue my flesh and paint me brunet inside and outside. I am oil to the floor you kneel upon. For insect ceremonies I am sugar dusted, but you slap red rainbows on my skin. You pull the pins from my joints. It's easy to melt into a honey earth long after Friday's Monday's June, when spade hands till the soil.