By Amit Majmudar
Symmetrical, supple,
creatively creased
Half flesh held flush,
the body’s embrace
This lover alone
hand that fits right,
Paper plane
creation commences
and the self seeks
The poet is a page
in a stranger’s pocket
along at least one
warm from the walk
or slipped in an envelope,
Love relies on division.
Seize my caesuras.
we are formed to be folded,
from nose to navel.
split down the spine,
encloses the body.
has a mirror-made
forever holding.
or origami crane,
when edge kisses edge
its second self.
hoping to hide
secretly buckled
furtive fold,
and lost in the wash
no stamp, no street.
Down me is a dotted line.
Friend, lover: fold me.
