The night grows cold.

I don't think I will ever tire
Of the nights growing cold.

The moon seems to almost
Fix itself at the center of
The universe—I guess,

The center of my universe:
Papers, upon papers,
Upon scattered papers and
Paperclips and paper dolls
And paper hearts,

And I,
Indian sit-kneeling at its
Paper center.

Hugging my schoolbag to sleep.