There was a beetle on your head like a hair clip, bouncin’, lookin’ down on us packin’ eggs
for our salads. Fry ‘em on the skillet, crisp, golden. And you looked beauteous crackin’ eggs.

There’s bone sand in my nose from when it poured on Ocean Isle, while you made breakfast
in a tropical depression, winds kickin’, blowin’ on soggy legs, our lips just smackin’ eggs.

I can hear an old seagull trippin’ over herself for fries doused in vinegar, partially charred.
She’s got a backwards bendin’ wing, googly eyes, half a left leg. She’s leakin’ puss, lackin’ eggs.

I don’t see much water without you. I’m parched, relyin’ on the tap, that liquid lead, with bitters,
and wildberries. It’s ambrosia to go, a mist, makin’ me think I’m an incubus, ransackin’ eggs.

You were too patient. Like Sarah, seraphim. My head’s all rings, no hearin’, even when I snap.
I am sean as a way of being, all call and response with myself. I forget us, start stackin’ eggs.