For Chris

 

The isinglass

that holds the eggs

for ever in a jar,

preserves in porcelain

translucence the

albumen.

That is no yolk.

 

Translations into vinegar

produce no more than pickle.

 

My sadly screwed up assonance

and metre rendered scantily

would make a tasteless omelette

as far as I can see.

 

Mais en francais

some would say

the eggcentricity

would live.

 

In perfect form

and scope

it's held.

The solution

matters not.

 

The poem is a

roving oeuvre.

An art that can

Chris cross.