my heart in my hands

                               Creases

           my sometimes paper airplane
       lost altitude just above the coffee table
                                                                                   and shot
                                                                       into the walls
                                                        as it cut the stucco clouds in two..
                                                  and the
                                                 colonies in the carpet
                                                      ran for shelter in the
                 corners of
         their world as i or it or maybe this
 might or may be or is
               an exaggeration
                  but i think paper cuts just barely
                                                   started falling from the sky
                 when i as if it calculated in itself
                                                                  a way to say or scream or be
                                                                                                            or know
                                                                                          that this aint up to me
                                                                           after my fingers let it go
                                          as all i can say is if i could
                                                                      or would
                                                                      or can or will do
                                  anything again
                                  i will or would or should
                                              close the window as i blame the draft
                       for its lack of trust
                                             in the currents of the wind though
      i know i folded all the creases wrong.
  and now your origami heart
                   is diving in after the vessel,
                                    paper-cutting up the loveseat like
           the initials on a park bench where
                                                   the gap in the wooden
                                                       planks breathes right through the word forever.  
                                             and here we lie,
                                                        dead in the living room
                                 and what we last see before our eyes shut
                                          are the faces we find in the texture
                        on the ceiling
           but such is the life
   of a warrior
 with a flower
 in his  
      hand.