over the evening paint
of the first bulb's segmentation,
a late husk, evermorning pigment
separating from the plane of skin
and not facing a barricade when it
skims inways toward the lakebed.
it takes a second for my tactile feed
to become audible, asking why
has the yolk in you stayed whole
all this time that clicks against it,
threatening it, making me from below
a lousy mouth hanging open in wait.
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