Chicken or Eggs or Cold Feet

A folder of a colder morning,
still dark hours after text started
to run black out my nose and 
onto pages and pages and 
pages, some rages, some stages,
some gauges, all starless -- too
much house in the way. My 
mentality is: give me heat and
meat or meet me in shell. Our
eggs are basketing and always
ready to be counted, always
ready to never hatch.