A piece of paper
is filled with possibilities.
It waits for the fold.

Sometimes a brain breaks like a car,
strands a driver somewhere—
stalled on the verge, hood gaping—
my stepson folding frogs as Christmas gifts
for the other patients and the staff.

The volunteer assigned to get him gifts
bought double-sided origami paper
so now he looks for ways to show both sides—
bird with open wings, umbrella.

The fold floats somewhere,
bends the arc of emptiness
toward a table and a chair,
a paper crane.

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