that egg there
down-looked, shadow long,
white. on its side.
(as if an egg could stand up
against curvature and gravity.)
red loam, charcoal sky.
light from somewhere,
pressing down, not
shining or warming.
felt in friction
—concussive drums—
between you, me,
the space between
—off in the distance—
you, me, and the ground.
headwind. resistance.
but that egg,
all its potential energy
coupled with a black-lilac hardback,
coarsely bound: If on a Winter’s Night
a Traveler.
goddamned if Private Taylor didn’t
fry up his shiny rations and yours.
showin’ off this mouth pleasing
omelet, unaware the definition
of the word “ration.”
down the line, another singing:
douceur de vivre…
