The day cracks itself
on my forehead, like

an egg. I feel
the cold of it running

down my cheeks, like
an egg. Who goes

there? A question
I do not speak

aloud, but sense
growing in my head

not like an egg,
like a small capsule

to which you add water
and watch expand

into an approximation
of a giraffe. Water

in this case is time.
The giraffe is the question

straining its neck,
hoping—I must think—

to see. No one
goes there. It was

only an idea,
supple, physical

and loud. And here
lies another: the sky

has no real beginning.
You are in it

even now. Should
anything fall, it

would fall from
the sky. We are

therefore very lucky.
Today is a lucky day.