Plastic buttons adorn me, but make no mistake I am no longer a shirt, nor a piece of cloth shelter. I have outgrown my form and been cut from my seams. Now sewn and resewn, I’ve become an addiction. Digging through carpets, sifting shower drains, congregate at the fingers, and comb through twice daily. I’ve gathered the too much your brush couldn’t hold. Understanding the framework, a blue collar once told. A shirt-like resemblance to pull apart and contort. Fusing with fibers to bring myself forth. An incomplete loop fastened tight to hold tension, pulls and prods to expose my skin-like existence. A once-was-compartment sails passed its own bounds. Is a pocket still a pocket when not rooted down? Well it is still secure, just not as it was. Revealed by its binding, it’s lost its because. Is it floating or hanging? Perhaps some of both. I have built a new skeleton, or so it evokes. You’ll notice how tethers take over the seam and have made a new window within the hoops means. Not a window to look through, but an eye rest you’ll see. A type of stained glass or painting maybe.