Thursday, July 3, 2014

Origami

I watched him
from outside,
some place
that was foreign

far

but afforded
scrutiny.

Around the
world,
scurrying
from places
darker than
Hamelin
and sadder than
Hank's holiday
trees,

than Plath's
Bell Jar-
they reached out.

And having
no
less power
than
to take on
their pain,
he folded
the sadness-

the childhood
sufferings,
the cold love
neglect,
the late night
dates
with broken
open razors-

he took it
in his hands,
and creasing
and shaping
turned them
into
little works
of art.

A crane, a butterfly, a dragon.

Folded despair
and the past and slipped it
into his own breast pocket
and kept it there.

From where I stood
outside of that world
I could not say that
he changed them

but even I could
see
how sexy the relief.