not a bubble.

for George

 

this intimate object, which is also a place,

which is also a network of shivers and calls between us –

when i compare it to an egg, i’m not saying

i want to be the one asleep in it.

 

i don’t want either

of us asleep in this. 

 

resting, yes – but we both know

the inside of an egg is for growing

which is what i hope for.

 

on the inside, the egg it isn’t as you imagine

it isn’t yellow for the most part, but

that which is alive shows up

in pink and red and orange pulses

and the occasional darkness of a vein

somewhere, there is an eye, and when it rises

we don’t question its place – it is there

so that it can all continue. 

 

this is what i want: the pulsing, merging each day,

the appearance of things that make sense.

 

not the dead thing cracked

stiff and unfulfilled

clean round white and yellow on a plate

hardened bubbles on the edge scarred

from the struggle against a violent oil

 

i don’t want us on a plate

i want the possible, the wet and messy vein looking in

through the impossible gap in the shell

 

when i say our bed is like an egg it’s just

in terms of cartoon colours, simplified.

but to simplify is to deaden, sometimes.

 

what i mean is what’s missing: us

in the laid-out emptiness, ready

to be wrapped, given pulse,

and grow from each other’s wing.

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