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Breakfast (Free verse) by James Rykelangeli
I like my sunshine sunny-side up.
The fork pierces to the yolk
to spark the fusion reaction
that fills my plate
with nourishing yellow light.
The gestation period for morning exuberance
is inversely proportional
to how many cups of dark matter are ingested
(but directly proportional
to the force of gravity later exerted on the eyelids.)
Through the kitchen window,
I see the cresset of the moon still hanging
in the pale morning sky.
I see the limpid brook
meandering through the champaign.
Burnt toast is an extraterrestrial landscape,
dead and scarred with craters.
Iâll dip it in the yolk,
Iâll soak it through and through with sunshine.
The unread newspaper waits,
silent and heavy,
deep and silent,
in my office down the hall.
The diaphanous moon
lingers still in the dawn.
The limpid brook feeds the champaign.
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