BPR 51 | 2024
Getting Small
It started in childhood,
a way to cope, bit by bit
like folding a window star,
first cutting the square
into eighths or sixteenths,
tucking in corners,
gluing them shut.
O to bend and smooth,
ride the nail across the edge.
This need for precision
calms the brain’s riot,
another fold, in, inward,
the forced, sharp crease
that leads to what is exact,
neat, geometrical, made
to flatter the sun.
No real stars here,
just glow, color, glass,
light’s breaking
into a shape,
the invisibility of paper
intended for a kite.