The carton is where old
poem fragments go
lines and rhymes lacking
aplomb now paper pulp
formed into function
and nurture, cradling
the un-cracked eggs
that are nothing
but encapsulated dream
wearing a cipher
of shallow divots
on brittle surfaces
which we struggle
to diagram in words
as life wanes in the waiting
for what is anchored
in darkness, unable to hatch,
doomed to be eaten.