The tip of the egg
resonates its proximity
in diaphanous fibers of albumen
spreading as a hand, as fingertips.
It strokes the miles left to go
as one cups a Merlot alone
at ten in the evening.

Even the sun refracts from this place;
its prisms belying its schizophrenic nature.
The closer I get,
        the more repellent I become.
Maintaining this orbit, even while in perigee,
I disintegrate into light and lack and habit
     of want.

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