The Eggshell Remembers Wholeness

Because it’s safer, because the
shadows hugging its eyes
only linger. I don’t know why—we cloak
the mutants, the hopeless
rhythm out of sync that coaxes
itself to horizons and cleanses
those eyes drawn

in faces. I’ll never know
the sack of garbage dreams
double-crossing one another
to the finish line. Beneath this perch
under the sky, 10,000 tons of water
compete with rotted daylight,
just enough to singe the floorboards,
warm the stinging snow, the buried
that never had a chance in the first
place. I can only anticipate. Dig a grave
for each ripple waning so indistinctly.

Learn to expect it.


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