sense of the senses

windsock
has no sock
the gales
have taken its
name
in tatters,
yet it remains
this weather
vane
twirling to the tumble
of the sky

later,
 
buying morning rolls
the shopkeeper
asked a previous
customer
(for want of a word
between them)
"Are these for breakfast?"
"No"
was the reply
"I just have these
each morning
after I wake up."

So we have the thing
and we have the name
of the thing
this skinny skin
of the mind
making
sense of the senses

we see the form
we hear the word
we smell the name
touch the description

but it is just
a fiction
of seperation
that leaves us
puzzling

how can it be a windsock without a sock?
how can it not be breakfast?
how can I time travel, yet always remain here inside your mind?