Can’t
Make Omelets Without Breaking Eggs
is a perfect metaphor for the moment
when the hard shell of winter, cracked clean
on the lip of April, splinters to molten delta . . .
but looking out the window this morning
I’m not so sure. March, for one thing
reminds me of a knock-off, fourth rate
Impressionist print on the wall above a bed
in a Comfort Inn in Oscoda, bald patch
of canvas here, ragged diagonal magenta
stroke there, haystacks receding to skin rash
a flirt of a month until you notice the dark
circles under her eyes, a crimson nail tracing
infinity on your bow tie, the other hand
stroking February’s chilly thigh. Then again
poets can never go wrong with eggs
seamlessness married to mystery
symbolism hatched on a warm and rainy April
morning frantically working a hairline crack.
No comments:
Post a Comment