Beneath the Arc of a Pagan Star

Three small, brown eggs

lay steaming in a bowl,

pointing inward

at the empty

space between.

I rest my sight

in that subtle gap,

to hold its place,

and strip hot shells

down to soft white.

Here, I think,

in this porcelain space

is where I will

leave the peels

and lay my mind to rest.

By W. Oliver Hunt