Falling morning sun on the leaves that ate last summer. Last summer’s sugar stored in roots that may never see the sun again. Alive. Eyes. Buried like air in bricks. Stack the seed of collapse same as stability and hope and all with the hand that rolls dice. Mouth that breaths out disparity but through the filter of coffee stained teeth rolling off liquor tongue wave like froth, off the God damned ocean. God couldn’t catch a fish that day. And damned it always stay never same. Like it is. We are. Sort of like a signature by an author on the cover of a book. It is important to know when a creator has touched its own work. Though it says nothing about the text. The buried test. Embedded attest. Rest in peacefully full with testimony. Own it. Scratch the terrible little title you’ve been dressing up in all these years on it, and hand it back to the stranger who first ever brought it back to you. Your own work. They’re not satisfied. Yes it fell like morning sun. On leaves never treasured by trees. Last summer’s sugar, stored like roots, in me. But none of that is enough. Back in my hands like that’s not where it all began. Asking me if I’m willing to put my name on it.