| The Poetry of Richard Sansom Published by The British Sansom Society | |
 
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| The Egg How can I count the lies since the universe is made up of them and they all look alike? I believe that there is one egg in the bowl but there may be two or three or a thousand, and my mind is being manipulated by pixies swimming through the white. Never mind. It is the times and my age, and it is, after all a deep summer night, and the breezes have ceased, and it is no surprise that my mind is filled with trivia. There is but one egg, but how would I know? It’s not that I don’t care. I have been there before. I have been in this scene and I know that Laertes dies and his father, Polonius, dies, and Ophelia drifts away, dead, and Hamlet, too, of course . . . Look at that egg. It is dead. Just go ahead and fry it or poach it, do something with it, get it cooked and place it in my mouth and pour in some brandy afterwards, or perhaps something sweet . . . | |
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