The grapefruit rolls downhill,
That motion June morning.
          Fruit heavy with 7 days rain,
          Climbing ants,
          Plump, white-veined seeds.
The wide paws of the golden spaniel
Flail after it, similar to a conductor criss-crossing his arms
In a final dare of energy.  

Evolution, somewhere then and now, 
Went a little manic, did a step-ball-change tap movement 
And then the fish walked,
The seed split,
Wet, craving something more.
No.
          Take away agency.
The seed sprouted.
The sprout seeded.

There are limits to knowledge, limits to language
Describing the comedic effect of Thalia finally squashing her teeth 
          Into the fruit,
Flipping her head high and prancing by, drooling juice.

Sometimes it’s best when a poem fails us. 
Reminds us of limits. Of simplicity.
Like dog. Sunlight. Rolling grapefruit.