Later today, we will hang,
held, eggs, for a moment as
our most upright selves. A
little taller, I will see
the space in between
us. In this, the hungriest
time, we will feed each other
what is dried, made potent
by our revolution. Dry, we
will dream of watery vessels,
conjure electric air, call
up the colors we lost. I
will think ofMary spilling
her feed into a bed of green
and spiny thistle, and be
swathed by equal parts day
and night.
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