Why I Don’t Discuss My Dreams

Rich Ives

An egg is not imperfectly round
but perfectly not round and never

exactly the same and thus perfect,

if perfect can be said to be

unrepeatable, and yet the eggs

keep right on coming, which


allows one to worship here if

worship is a word for living inside

the idea of the inside of something

that has yet to come out, except

as an idea of what something

not quite like it did before.


An egg cannot speak in the way

we’re used to, or the way we’re

used to is not the way most things

have learned to speak when

they decide to tell us in their

way about what they are not,


which is not very often because

most things have no need of

our understanding and no

kindness to share because

kindness is not a necessary

component of being. An egg


is nevertheless kind if only

because its imperfection

allows us to find ourselves

inside without actually going

there where the inside

is actually further inside,


which is the way life before it

erupts can be because its

potential is not yet cracked

and can sing like the silence

between losses, in which we

seem to exist before we exist.


An egg is not a celestial body but

a body containing the celestial,

not a going out to, but a bringing in,

a gathering of resources and

a containment of creaturely

needs and essence, which


is difficult to remember when

you consider the impatience

of the creature’s needs inside,

as it feeds and feeds towards

the inevitable breaking of its

imaginary celestial agreement.


An egg exists in its own territory,

which is not a shell but a taste

of what’s outside translated

to nutrients and a lack of

hammers and foxes and

briars and children,


which can fool the egg easily

because it contains them

and offers those contained

its nutrients in another way

that doesn’t involve even

whistling or sputter. An egg


can be hidden behind fear or

in front of a lie, where the

hidden becomes obvious while

remaining hidden in a joke

about what came first that

isn’t what we thought it was,


which happens all the time inside

things that hold potential loosely

and long to crack open the shell,

which isn’t the visible shell, and

therefore isn’t available to those

who demand proof. An egg sleeps


all the time like a man who lives

inside himself, where it’s dark

and safe, if you don’t count

all the horrible things that can

happen to innocence and food and

creatures still turned outside in,


which is the way we all are

at some time before we crack

and climb out of our false safety

and go looking for something to

eat, which we might actually

have to accept and leave open.