an ode to crumpled paper.

if you can read this you are not close enough.

I like the crumpled paper on my desk.
The soft matte cocoon.
If it were gigantic,
and perhaps surrounded by shallow water,
it could adorn some corporate lobby.
Nobody would think it out of place,
as they would me.

The greek olympian I tried to draw
is now hiding in it's center.
In the fetal position.
The dog, however, is properly standing for the first time.

It seems all the things I drew on it,
as it lay flat on it's back,
are somehow closer to their intended representation.
Occupying three dimension.
No wait.

Four.

I like your folded words,
Your collapsed sentences and,
bent titles.

Don't go! I love you!

Reviews

[R J Askew]

I got the idea of little voice from inside the paper talking. 'Let me out! Let me out! I don't deserve to end like this.' The passer by unforlds the paper and finds a misunderstood drawing or poem, whatever, which is so grateful to be rescued it performs miracles for the discoverer for ever more. How am I doing?