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Eggs


by Tim Young


potatoes under my scrambled eggs

having been scrambled in my pan

fried to perfection

with a dash of orange colby 

like new sun aches through tall clear glass

reminds me of some warmth

etched on cave walls

surrounded by fire light

cold stone resisting

human thoughts

but somehow still touched

touch navigated through

freezing standing waters

breezes only imagined

pushing with all their strengths

inside outside aggravated

like ignored souls in the kitchen

still curious of the taste of eggs

finally licking my plate

reacting to the shattering cold

caught in the violence of a flame









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