The Frame

In the eyeframe, the headframe, the frame
of reference - all I am is
pinned, overlayered and
counterpointed by 
the twist and pull of thread,
a cut-through appliquΠof cloth emerged
horror stitching it together
in a mitred, tidy frame.

Fashioned from scraps
basket-tossed, from testers of silk,
it was pulled, stretched, pinned and
sewn tightly into place
until the cloth fits the fashioning
design begins. 
Then mounted on the wall.

With snipping were the layers peeled back
revealing weals of stunning red
but at its base 
a pure white lack 
was faceless, nameless, eyeless,
thick rich threads ran in and through,
all goldwire, amber, indigo.  

Detach the stitching, 
as pupils, lashes, lips, 
all unravel character ... 
a pour to the floor
a quiet cascade 
of slippage and soft cloth 
dropping in a cowl 
of colour.

The frame, it jumped the wall
indignant at its contents lost
and bounced unbroken, face upraised
bare and wide
a still-square piece of wood 
all solid 
vacant as space
and empty of its reference.
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