lonely house

what incredible range, this storm upon your face
and later, the ambient light touching the grayness of stove
pouring over a split egg        whiteness over injury
you tell me of your reluctance, that same lack of enthusiasm that surfaced three days ago, which you retracted
only to revise and fold again so willingly in front of my heart
      now over the heat, poking at egg whites with a fork

you fall apart, I say

some sparagmos tearing at your seams

and my insight is returned with insults and further injury “I detest eggs”
you surface,

despite having asked for them all along.