this poem
from my pocket
hidden, creased and worn
not my heart
this poem

this paper this
pen’s milked ink
as a heart presses life
blood or ink
on the page
or the face
or the heart
after it has dried
folded, put away
but loved

loved to softness
no sharp edges
blunt perhaps
words not edges
softened paper
softened hardened-heart

unfolded for you
taken from my pocket
reclaimed, harvested
a heart not yet cooled
despite science, despite
medicine’s chill
my unchilled unhardened heart

i’ll show it to you
press your fingers
to the raised paper
where this ink

has lifted itself up
proud raised chest
storied heart
wax seal official
for you unfolded

you’ll have to soften

your eyes

unfold field of vision
to blur the words clear
take off your lensy glasses
and squint
and i’ll hold your hand

touch you where
your hands begin to fold
carefully into your

together or away
from one end to another
found or not
unfound but folded
with ways folded and unfolded
tried and
retried again

when we get there,
when we are hearts
when we have pockets
warm with the
heat of folded things–

Reach out and touch someone....

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