the folds, the tether-lines gathering
securing linens whipped and filled
by a wide wind
it sweeps my memory in white
noise, throwing the sheets, the chronologies
of a life into air
and I am left wanting.
running my hands into the folds,
the pleats of cool pressed cotton
running my hands down the pleats
again, just to feel them
the reassurance that they are still there,
for my fingers to glide over
in a given moment of luxurious ennui.
the pleats are snatched up in
thoughts nimble, quick, and grasping
again, just to feel them
a habit to drape
to clip against a line
(to blow in the wind)
in the folds.