The sink rim collects trinkets: flabbityjibbits, wire whisks, a mobious strip of smells
curl up the wall to watch fruit flies sputter for a strawberry leaf inside an eggshell.
In the kitchen, an organic death star floats in white curtains before the freezer.
This is our ingénue—in the air. Each of her ruffled steps fill the square inch of an eggshell.
Like white bread, she sops up the corners to bow out at 11 o’clock,
cramped for space, stepping on eggshells.
Someone has packed small suitcases for her move to the compost heap: juice &
tea bags pucker for a pattern instead of horizon-less eggshell.
Damp walls wheel out microscopic waterfalls from each pore—
what is a ladybug to a red paint fleck, or our Thumbelina to an eggshell?
The faucet drools over 12 cracked huts, a hedge of 6
baby snails chant oh no, it’s raining off my eggshell.
A small bloom descends to the floral armchair, Ponce de Leon rests panting
as a princess, then shoves on for carpet-colored jade & endless rounding eggshells.
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