Fold.
When I sit straight at this white page
I am crisp. Taut
Like a bright paper crane.
Edges and flat cuts, the folds
Of theater flyers
And wrinkled tape- Smashed against
Windows on the wavy interior
Of thick pop restaurant glass in the
Rain-gloom TV static New York,
A child passes
Brushes a hand across the glass numbly
Fleeting away like the touch-down-fly
Birds I remember from my old house,
Fat and impossibly light
From between the French doors against where
I could never catch one fully in my eye.
It means that I’m expired. That
I succumbed to myself a relentless
Generator pulsing out black tick marks and headaches
And disappointing sketches, smearing
The walls of each tiny white room that
I find in the crumpled in-jams
Of contracting origami.
Ana Celeste Poetry 