Eggshells

The moon is waning old,
As sickly yellow as a tablecloth
Too long by cigarette smoke,
Or an egg that never hatched.

The world has holes
About the elbows.

I feel newborn
And out of joint
Above the planet's
Labored breathing.

I'm aware
The path to bitterness
Runs next to disappointment
With reality,
But surely summer waterways
And lunar speckled winds
Can freshen up before the leaves
Curl brittle,
Fall.

I hope for,
No, demand 
The cracking through
Of days 
Without their feathers,
Eyes still opening,
Crying shrill and raw.

- 5/19/25

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