eggs on the counter 

i crack my eyes open on the side
of a smooth metal day. burry my cell phone
& dig it up again eighteen times.
dirt beneath my fingernails. 
get a call from a terrible man 
who has more terrible news. an appointment
with a shark in the driveway. 
on the side of the road on the way 
to an empty bucket i saw a ground hog.
i talked to him out the car window.
i said, "what if we don't make it?"
he said, "i am just here." is it too much
to ask to encounter an oracle?
instead, i find little bugs in the chicken coop. 
they are smaller than the tooth
at the end of a question mark. i lift the eggs,
one at a time from the pine shavings.
they are empty as they have been
for weeks but still i harvest them. still i open them
as if one might be different. like pairs
of my own eyes. i hear people say
over & over, "i do not recognize the world anymore."
my trouble is i do. i see it coming into focus. 
people i love running from police
& all their fresh & horrible names. 
hands like claw machines. a gun for a star. 
all the eggs on the counter. i name them
before i put them in a carton 
on the shelf. give them to a friend & then
we go & try to carve a hole in the yard
deep enough for all our grief. we dig
past fossils & the bodies of our grandfathers.
houses made our of shoes. square-headed nails. 
when we stop it still isn't deep enough
but we find eggs there too.