you made me origami 
and we fell like folded satellites
to the sound of the rain in the gutter--

what was it that you did
that made me fold 
into tin foil origami?
i Kusudama bloom and Crane
wings into orbit-- bend my
tail into a skull and let my
wings blink red and white--
to be mistaken for sea-sick stars--
did you crease me tight enough to 
make it through the atmosphere of
another planet? this is why
we fold with metal-- take pictures
of the planets-- our sisters
who wear the rings of their husband
to bed and take off everything else
in a full length mirror also 
known as the palms of our hands 
we lens voyeurs who fold ourselves 
coiled as Lotus and and Kawasaki 
roses that keep pivoting until
they become another planet--
we sat together to watch Saturn
undress and I told you not to
take pictures-- watched her
standing in front of that mirror--
smug with her own brass creases and
the sound of rain or sleet on her
shoulders-- collected her moons
around her belly like marble-bubble soap--
this is the sound of a rain gutter
and the haunt of another car pulling out
fingers over the asphalt-- the thrash of the corn
when she's lonely and wishing
someone would take her picture again--
everyone wants to be watched in the mirror--
everyone wonders what they could fold themselves
into if they had enough brass or
tin foil-- or hands that could remember
patience was brass and coronet--
flap Crane wing of bronze and rain--
pull me loose in ribbons from 
the brown hair of the clouds-- make the night sky
modest again so Saturn can learn 
to not make such a show of undressing--
she should leave her comets on until
we're done crawling back into 
the star boxes where we belong--
i folded Cranes in silver
and gold paper on my night stand
when i was ten.
i counted them
by the brown paper bag-full 
because i had wanted 
one-thousand-- enough to wing-beat
the glimmer of the moon-- enough
to challenge the quantity of visible
stars-- enough to send on quests to 
take pictures-- jostle past satellites
stealing wing-beat and flashbulb--
enough to weld the torn
sternums of her rings-- balance
moons in this orbit--
forgive me for traveling so far 
just to fold something for you--
we don't fold paper-- we fold forged in
brass and hedge clippings off
the over grown moons who act like
vines when you get close enough to 
asking Saturn what her real name is--
but yes we were left here to bloom
in Kusudama and Crane wing-- 
welded to the constant turning
of the rain in the gutter--
we didn't need paper-- we were
just counting the satellites 
that get mistaken for queasy stars--
jostled by Saturn's nightly
display-- look at her sway
she look just like you and me--
another Kawasaki rose-- turned
and turned tight watch face-- 
in a rain gutter--