Deleuzian Folds

wrinkle in a smooth shirt

as she sits delicately

thinking someone will notice

the gentle slope of breast

beneath the cool green of silk.

 

Be

aware (unsaid) of the taut fabric

pulled together across me

like some thin sweater worn

against a chill, I will

be a stillborn smear on a slide

dispassionately sought

because eternally caught

in my own hide. Folded surfaces

I am unable to sing wordlessly within,

because the creases hold fast

the dead and me,

the not-quite quick enough.

 

See

how what rests against her

never rests

quietly inside, can only brush

smooth against the skin

of thoughts that tuck

themselves together,

random threads lapped into pattern.

Yet still she will

sit with a crumpled shirt

experiencing the smooth

relationship between

silk and skin.

 

Deleuzian

of depth.

 

Each

layer a different surface

turned under to create the illusion of self,

all pleated, expecting, desiring

to be unfolded somehow

(when least expected

if romance were real)

for in the unfolding

 

forever.