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78 The Folder Folded things speak well of you When you’re out of the room. They hold the near future captive, Like children about to go on recess Or sexual pleasure at the brim of control. I think of the pressure of your hand Smoothing over the cloth napkin, The bedsheet, the piece of clothing That signal the meal to come, The lovemaking, the spent day— And how you stack the bath towels As high as they’ll go, as a driver Will keep the fuel tank near full During times of shortage. I step out Of the shower looking to the center Of my life, where you have folded it. Creases will have nothing to do With edges: It’s no accident That ledges are ledges and valleys, So far removed from any real Horizon, where people most often Choose to put down roots and grow. I like to imagine that God, who, Faced with formlessness, folded The world into manageable corners, Sent me you to repeat the gesture. ...

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