The sky drew closer, tucking itself in
To my unframed and out-of focus
A speckled grey curve, punctuated with wet-jelly commas,
and hovering apostrophes which came;
In guided-missile style attack
To blot my blurry bag-scratched lenses.
A white hen's speckled egg.
<we might find a feather stuck,
out there, beyond the bubble.
With fine down we'd prove our parentage
and count ourselves chickens>
We're all floating in our whites.
Bedraggled islands, melting,
Black drips from books and eyes.
Drops hooking-up to knee-high icy jeans,
and seeping in, past every stitch, to chill our goosed-up skin.