Myriads

An eggshell splits between your fingers,
and everything that was concealed
spills out at once.

This is not a smooth, white oval.
This is not a hard and unrevealing object.
Hard and unrevealing, unbelieving,
because before you cracked it
everything was imaginary.

It makes a mess on the frying pan,
but you assure me that
you did it right.

“See all the choices, all at once,” you say,
“Now, scrambled or fried?”

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

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