every day i wake up
           expecting full formation
     only to discover i have yet to pop.

life feels like a kernel in my back left molar.
      

        i look for my future in
     yesterday's egg scramble.
       the yolk: no solution,
no bramble
  

i yearn all the more  for my unrummaged brain--
keep ice in my left hand,
sanity in the wrong vein.

i always fall too steep,
staccato fingers quick to adjust
a smile to a frown.
i always bruise my hips on the way down.


my glass-bottom floor,
my lamp-lit contingency.
all's  keepin' me afloat:
my swiss-riddled dignity.