• Vol. 01
  • Chapter 02
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I wish origami had a scent,
like a new book,
or an old one.

I wish you could sense
my lingering fingers
on the fish, on the frog,
on the flower I make for you.

How do I begin to explain
that a stone in a river
has been touched more times than it can remember?

That it knows so much more
than it is able to say.