First Things

This doesn't have to go in order;

that's the first thing.

I looked inside

an egg,

poked and blown

pristine, made clean

by the passing of its own slime. Inside

was a cathedral, upturned chalice, clean

as my own eye. A hole is a thing

to gather light. The sun's blown

its particles apart in order

to glow through this one, dead egg. 

This doesn't have to go in order.

Crack, then slime; or slime first, then the egg

whole in your hand. Blown

glass. A trinket, a gift, a thing

easily given. Riddle wrapped up inside,

cased, laid, brooded, clucked upon, clean

as a whistle. An egg's 

a thing

with feathers, but, order

of operations applies — a flashlight shone clean

through the inside 

illuminates outline, diagram, edges blown:

a real chicken nugget, down over bone, clean

tucked tail and rolled. Egg

over easy, it looks easy. Asleep. Unblown.

No peep nor crack. First things

first. All in order.

Round inside.

I once saw a bird born inside 

out. Heart pumping on down chest. A thing

that lived in egg,

but once born, died. Thrown and blown

away. To the white bowl of the sink I went to clean

my hands after. Last things follow first: Hygiene. Order.