Morning is a mishmash of Macintosh memories that still taste like corn mazes in October when the sun is too hot for the sky to hold it– gives birth to Indian corn pupils that simmer like mismatched socks in closet drawers.

I am a fisherman for a ripe tide to take me somewhere other than my head and I can never pick a pair of shoes. I keep a jar of widowed ear rings from times I have neglected the other half.

I piece myself together like the collective of three puzzles from a shelf in the back corner of a the Once Again thrift store. Apple corn baskets. Vienna sunrise. Your mother’s herb garden after the frost.