you are an egg
in shape and substance
a potentiality
attached to the earth
stretching heavenwards
though you need
no sun
never breathing with
those gills
the moss remains a memory
green taste in your mouth
the muddy footstep fills with rain
Tag: egg
breakfast (20170617)
it boiled down to
a single egg from the fridge
and a piece of toast
one half of a slice of bread
on a chipped plate
not enough butter
to grease the knife
salad in the making (20170109)
we fill up the room
like eggs coming to a boil
in a stainless steel pot
jostling one another
breaking our skins
escaping into
salty water
hardening into thin ribbons
the sulfur smell
that is us
the bits of calcified shell
that are us
we float in salty water
we bounce and break
our centers harden
little suns
gone still
the egg and the soul (20161122)
the soul is egg-shaped
tethered to the earth
by seven cords
and seven cords ascend into
the heavens
the research isn’t complete
do those cords simply wrap around
and meet one another
where the universe ends
or are up and down
actual directions
if the connections are cut above
or if they wither
those below thicken
the soul becomes dense
and sluggish
those with this condition may
live a full life
but they are dead though they breathe
if the cords below are severed
death is immediate
but the soul will not be
strong enough to ascend
and will crack, leak, dissolve
the mystery then
how do the cords become
thin as a single strand
of spider silk
until they disappear in harmony
taking the egg with it
sunny side up (20161117)
there was a trick
when i was a kid
a needle in the bottom
of an egg and you could
break the yolk
and blow out the contents
left with an empty shell
i wonder who held the needle
and how long did it take
to evacuate my yolk
Words and Feathers 