Poetry

f/stop

What leaks through
threads binding its skin
to frame is the name
that won’t stay
put (much like its
shape). We want it
solid, close,
so we soften
focus and blur delicate
latticework
into plane and pretend
it was never constituent
fiber, cell, part
of another before
(much like
everything), it was
always only
this and pray
the seams we don’t see
hold.