Breaking of the Egg

It is the time of the eggs,
when the sickly yolk runs past
your knees
(thunderclaps are heard
caressing in the night)
and all the world shrinks
into a boiled white
of clouds.

It is the time of the eggs;
The curtain must fall
on tangled, naked, limbs,
on trees devoid of green,
and the lark will muffle his song
in a yellow placenta.