Something with feathers
or possibly fangs
is curled up, raw
munching the starch
inside the bulb
in the dark drawer
or a flower waits
in the papery egg
that crackles like an onion
petals collecting themselves
in the yolk, composing
themselves from the red
and yellow glints that fall
on its shell as it drowses
by the windowsill
then, when it finally opens
there is no snake springing
from the cave of the clay pot
no sharp-shinned hawklet
building a nest laced with bones
on the cliff of my kitchen shelf
when the red fist defiantly opens
there's nothing
but opening
Nincsenek megjegyzések:
Megjegyzés küldése