Frame

This frame doesn’t fit the image,

where the living oils penetrate deep into the scene,

imbibed directly through the taught canvas skin,

pulled through a thousand pores by an internal gravity,

tattoos in pigment and electric spark,

flowing through a million capillaries, thrumming,

performing mysterious alchemy in the depths within,

building motion in the surface trails of strokes across

the indigo sky, the sapphire sea, and

the golden knots adorning the purple cloth,

dark as midnight, of a sultan’s turban.

 

Still, like ill-fitting shoes, the frame is misplaced construction,

constriction chosen in an alien space, apart and irrevocable,

defining the rigid boundaries of this world,

giving nothing but distraction and discord to

the gathered gallery, the librarians, and the art collectors,

fixing the horizon at the edge, building a ceiling on heaven,

and stunting the arc of the breeze over the rye fields,

a shallow window, a cellular prison, a selfish governor,

that keeps the gravity from pulling you in

whole.

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