"A Lover's Parade"

We talk and live but briefly and to the point
Never swerving far enough to spill ourselves;
Oh how we must every so often spill ourselves--
And not just to close friends in closed quarters
But as lovers, perching elevated in busy squares--
Might the joys of life then spout and spray
To billowing, arresting angels at the Floodgate,
And call forth heavenly music in tickles.