e g g

by linda pastan

in this k i n g d o m

the sun n e v e r sets;

under the p a l e oval

of the s k y

there seems no way i n

or o u t,

and though there is a s e a here

there is no t i d e.

for the e g g itself

is a m o o n

g l o w i n g faintly

in the g a l a x y of the barn,

s a f e but for the spoon's

ominous t h u n d e r,

the first delicate c r a c k

of l i g h t n i n g.