Matthew Crane
There is an oblong thing.
Its white by candle yellow.
Inside, unseen innards
can goosh and grow and mix
a dash life- color, and down
in sticky strands to fluff
and feather flower forth,
a chicken, not an omelet
Not an over-easy
nor a cheesy scramble
nor a freckled lizard
nor a stippled trout
nor a Bengal tiger
nor a gilded vase
And it is well one would wonder
“why?” What wills or miracles,
will well proportion chickens
from this, an oblong thing?
