We don’t know which came first, the chicken—
naturally unsalted (enough to make

a grown man cry, remembering sweet
nothings) — or the hapless egg, who sat

on a wall that may or may not have been Dover,
but all the instruments agree. Never,

never, never, never, never:

the line lies in trochaic pieces
on the floor, and, for all their pretty speeches,

they cannot put it back together
again, the king’s men (This feather

stirs; she lives!),
the King’s Men.