On Folding a Fitted Sheet
One eye looks within, the other eye looks without.
― Henri Cartier-Bresson
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.