Egg Candling

Joyce Peseroff

in its thin citadel
porous to light and air,
the only place on earth
able to produce a feather.
A penlight's probe determines
whether the settlement will be
vacant forever or hides
hackles that might one
morning, rising,

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Another Song [Are they shadows that we see?]

    Are they shadows that we see?
    And can shadows pleasure give?
    Pleasures only shadows be
    Cast by bodies we conceive,
    And are made the things we deem,
    In those figures which they seem.
But these pleasures vanish fast,
Which by shadows are exprest:
    Pleasures are not, if they last, 
    In their passing, is their best.
    Glory is most bright and gay
    In a flash, and so away.
Feed apace then greedy eyes
On the wonder you behold.
    Take it sudden as it flies
    Though you yake it not to hold:
    When your eyes have done their part,
    Thought must length it in the heart.