Jungian Parlor Game after Egg Drop Soup

A bantam hen

struts around melting

ice cubes and a fight

of self-analysis that should not

be repeated. This part:

axis tipped, reverberating grief.

Standing graveside,

cuticles picked to blood;

empty fortune

cookie; lines on a hand

tracing a juggernaut.

Cusp of earth, rest,

decay, recomposition.

Spot fire flashbulb lights

a white witch (me, Halloween)

but still calculating water and fingertip

sensations. Three words

and a few timid stars

hazard an enterprise

for salvaging habits

of affection. You say: I’m

coming over.  Ideally,

we can see in

– no, through

the dark.