The art, it seems, is in the ease
of mirroring what is measured:

at once attending to, surrendering
to a set of numbers, a fixed but –

when you release too tight a grip –
supple and scented plane.  

Tuck the puckered edges back.
Give it a thwack. Let it balloon –

a goddess-smelted bloom
of what remains after ablution:

smoke-colored shadows, the stir
of a post-coital myrrh.

Hold as one holds
a picture you would hang

or, as in Prokofiev’s ballet: arms
bent and raised, palms open-faced.

Fold it until the edges meet –
repeat, repeat. Walk it upstairs

with the reverence you’d have
for carrying your country’s flag.