They nest in a basket,
as whole as Faberge’s toys,
a revolution in colour the children
have painted for Easter.
Voices dictate and one demands to eat
infertile eggs boiled hard as ritual.
Beside the tatters of waste my plates
are crazy tondos, mosaic masters’ palettes,
the chaos of icons stripped from screens
in Petersburg, piled ready to burn.
Now, these three are spending their morning
piecing
a picture from shattered shells. 
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