It is freely placed, freely found,
a focus like silk rain on a wide landscape,
not bound
(as an island can seem) by its detached escape.

I am fashioning a vortex
that turns corners. Yes, it is complex.
The light on the shears demands
a hub that rolls squarely in my hands.

Hundreds of pieces will not let go
of their attraction,
any flower color to any bird hue.
I decide each is a permissible fraction.

Out on the street, you know,
all of these scraps have hats.
All these scraps swish before the milliner,
who makes ruby, lilac, pool-green crowns

for the heads of ladies I have clothed.
She tops their poise and sense of balance.
Why should I loathe
a target's bull's-eye? Why with all my needle's talents

do I move the balance-point off-center?
Because I disbelieve it's anywhere else.
I love to be sewing in my window for myself.
Out there, riders in a carriage are spots, prints;

not my nucleus. I say: Hand--
pull the whole core around and around
the origin you are mapping. Under
my eyes make no center that will end.