I helped him with his paper wings.
It would take at least ten, he said, before the wind would bear him:
small, played easily by currents.
How he lit a whole pond with ripples, skimming the shallows.

How mindful you are.
Notice: this is what rain makes of paper,
the dripping newsprint sog coating your son's bent back. Your face
clogging
the room,
forgetting its own heart, and its ties that you cut and forget again
and
again.