Before everything
else this morning—
here I am, slavishly
hardboiling
and rinsing
not quite
a dozen
eggs in my kitchen,
while an
old dachshund-
beagle lies
snoozing,
breathing
in and out
of sync
with the faint lilt
of some
oniony wallpaper
music in the
adjoining room;
each of her persistent,
shallow, and
frivolous
snores underscoring
the wayward
and whimsical
mellifluousness
of my genius,
massaging it,
fudging the gap
between furious
action
and stock-
stillness—from hands
and slick shells
wringing wet,
to just a few
cold beads of water lingering,
stranded on
course, beige surfaces—
until
eventually,
I come
to realize
none of us
ever really
does anything
ahead of time.
