rotten eggs

we long
to ask of autumn
the secrets of spring -
to demand of the past
the future it's yet to bring -

to beat beauty bare,
exposing its anxious guts with
its insect like crawling and fretting a
scurrying dance to prepare for
an anticipated destruction -

And/but here
a doubt full egg, loud with cracking,
mad with disgust at its hatching -
spilling its yolk, a pool of
synthetic medicine, primed for a
noxious mouth, spawning
sharp shadows that slice wounds
into the light,
this symphonic worship of Now
screaming in the agony of
rebirth.