.

Shadows on stone steps, grey on granite grey.
But overhead, branches lacing blue into
a spring-crisp wind that teases skin
and tumbles a discarded paper airplane
past new grass. Maybe folded by a child.
Edges not quite bent and if spread flat,
if opened up again, the furrows of a pen
become a private peek at someone's life.
Something wrinkled. Hidden.

Trailing on the wind, a spill of voices.
Angry fight? Crunch of tiny shoes dragged
hard along a gravel path? Eyes with lowered lids?
Am I the only one who sees its three dimensions?
Its mountain precipice and dangling pretense?
An accident of words tossed like rocks
against a cold-oncoming blast?
This folded twist of flight?

"My whole life was made up of unimportant trifles
cleverly blown up into acts of daring. When I saw
that my life was a sort of intaglio or relief in reverse,
its hollows became as terrible as abysses. In the
process known as damascening the patterns are
engraved on a steel plate and inlaid with gold.
In me, there is no gold. Being abandoned and
left to be brought up as an orphan was a birth
that was different from but not any worse
than most." (Jean Genet)