Origami

that puffs up at your breath.

Two interlocking rings from a single sheet

of kami. A waterlily. A star box. But now try

folding the jade plant you left in the car

to be scorched by the sun. Try

folding Afghanistan. Fold the wrinkles

of that conversation you wanted to have.

Inside-reverse-fold the empty space

in your Sundays. Try folding this city

of layers, peeling back taxis, scarves,

quarters dropped in paper cups,

Rockefeller Plaza. Beginning with a bird base,

fold the Spanish jumbled in your ears. Quickly.

Fold the edges of the wind that cuts in

from the river. Make one valley fold

diagonally. Fold failures. Try folding

the empty space in your Sundays.

Start from a bird base again: that small girl

whose long dark hair looks like hers.

Fold the seven days of the week from a single

sheet of kami. Try folding money

into more money. In ten steps or less,

fold this city of layers. Petal-fold the winter

until it lies flat at the bottom of the star box

with Afghanistan and the empty space

in your Sundays. Now open up the bird:

count the creases left in the paper.