Sunny-Side-Up
Morning eggs arrayed
in their cartons.
Cold domed power-plants
in their laboratory-white shells.
I try not to dwell
on the still humming embryology.
The unknown waits inside the oval
until it cracks open.
Is that a spindrift of red in the yoke?
Maybe it’s just ova solar activity,
a flesh flare, as the egg is unshelled.
I watch for signs of a struggle to fly.
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