The Misfortune of Frames

Whether or not dominion is intentional,
it’s a triviality. Here I am outside
above and below. My body a fringe
clutched reluctantly in shrinking palms:
birth to death, a folded blueprint.

My teeth may lose luster or rot
like everything gentle in a peach
but somehow, this drunken
perception in the mirror, these
bits of frame I wish peeled off
like wallpaper, my big bones
incorrectly placed—they’re patterns

crafted from shoddy wool,
the only material permissible
for mocking height, worth,
a ring of well-intended lace,
the charm always stitched

back to ground level, or lower,
ten feet in the swamp. Thread
spooling illusory walls, eating

its own edifice. Temporal vision
deconstructing, the veil of progress
flimsy, inside my foundations I watch
everything crumble back, its skeleton

lost in sky scraped flesh. Its hunger
tearing out its own eye sockets.
A stilted persistence of movement,
ascending weight on dusty bricks,
ignominious truth and its dying verse
admitting never will it shed its old skin.


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