Beauty, as Observed in Egg Yolks

Viscous trails along the counter
from a violent break-away
and a sunspot on the surface;
she asks if it was alive—I tell her no.
“They’re organic; they’re never squeaky-clean.”

She thinks it’s blood or an eye
that blinked once before pasteurization.
All it saw was white—
not the light you see in movies
while the voice of God tells you
to come closer.

“They’re organic—they just have more…
...stuff.” She asks if I’m sure.
I say yes but I mean no.
I’ll just pretend I’m eating the sun.

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