Denaturing the Egg
Haunted by decades of failure to express how I feel, I vanish myself in hyperreal subplots. For
example: the publisher I should not have disparaged to C. is her brother by way of a playground
oath. Or: since maraschino cherries went out of fashion, romance has been, on balance, more
bitter. How often have I pondered the trajectory of a sperm that knocks between turnoffs and
Bauhaus clocks? Sudden failure means it can happen anywhere: over bowls of so-called lentil
soup, beside nunnish Canucks clothed in metrical white, in the secular world of kombucha
fables. Such is the crispness of advertised words. We savor the melon that yields to the knife.
Give us this egg, our daily geode. The day is sexless. The day is full of bread.