Netting Under Strain

People ask about the join, but it’s the spillover I trust, the ache where the netting wants out and never fits back in. The studio floor’s still wet. Every patch I could find—bean stink, sun stains, runoff ringing the edge, like a harbor that never empties, just trades cargo for silt. Couldn’t hide that seam this time, so it opens, sagging with its own story. When you work only with what’s left, you don’t choose the color—turmeric when the sun leaks, red from last season’s tarp, green gone sour on the sack. That plastic cord—one more hold, never quite tight enough. Harbor’s just a word for waiting, for holding what can’t dock anywhere else. The ceramic—see how it drags the edge, tilts the bottom, like a vessel carried too long. Nothing tidies up. Shelter is a patch—always more negotiation than promise. And every bulge is just what the old sacks remember, when the rain came through and the story slipped out sideways.