In consequence, I can see the egg.
The pristine shell of idle mittens.
Wracked by guilt the giddy clown sighs.
a Pyre, A Pyre for yesterday.
Dumb clucks the austere prison.
Moving silent, lips in innocence.
A crack forthwith, an oozing yolk,
coagulated matter, grey for brains
on the outside.
Slipping under the low globe.
to wear the apple skin of the sky .
if the viceral hiss of the jungle
might exist again,
time's great aperture tipping with rain.
then mercy makes
a birthday cake
and all is forgotten.
