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.