Once, Hephaistos Amphigueus' little brass goblets
Would fill themselves and walk about the table
Politely pausing before guests. These days
The god mostly avoids men, living among apes,
Still grateful that they nursed him back to health
When he was thrown headlong from the sky.
The goblets, though, remain. When Baba Yaga's hut
Strolls through Heaven on its long chicken legs
The goblets follow, thinking they've found their mother.