05 October 2009

Breaking Eggs

one, two, the cracked eggs stare
up from the bowl, perfect
specimens before being beat

into milk for scrambling or
perhaps French toast, as he
slowly waked to

twisted sheets and last-night
debris, a stocking here, a shoe
there, the alarm switched

off in greedy anticipation of a
late morning lie-in, waking to
hear the dawn chorus only

to sleep again, clutching at those
dreams of blue-black twilight, the
voices bleeding from the radio into

our ears, the black of night edging
away to grey morning, the sky
not yet blue, still unwarmed by the sun

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