When you kill it at the edge of the pan, you don't notice That the egg grows an eye in death. It is so small, it doesn't satisfy Even the most modest morning appetite. But it already watches, already stares at your world. What are its horizons, whose glassy-eyed perspectives? Does it see time, which moves carelessly through space? Eyeballs, eyeballs, cracked shells, chaos or order? Big questions for such a little eye at such an early hour. And you – do you really want an answer? When you sit down, eye to eye, behind a table, You blind it soon enough with a crust of bread.
Copyright © 2011 by Aleš Šteger. Reprinted from The Book of Things with the permission of BOA Editions.