Egg

by Pippa Little

fits in a palm
or snug in an eggcup.

Cool, undimpled shades
of lukewarm milk, magnolia emulsion,

plain and neat as clouds
on an indeterminate day.

A thing
either is or isn’t.

Crack.

Around wet suns
galaxies drift, that thing dances

on the head of a pin,
brain–stem, cortex, spine

uncoil then fuse. Consider crucibles:
who makes the Maker?

For world within worlds
look no further.