Fold Up

a screen of symbols made of fire

Portable most hearts.

You can carry yours

Although some cannot.

Some lie with their hearts

Pulsing and pulsing

And can’t pick them up

Even to carry

Across a small room,

Pulsing and pulsing.

It’s unbearable,

Unless feeding them

A beat at a time

Like beads of metal,

Molten gold droplets

Soldered to hearth screens,

And when each screen fills

And cools, you fold it

And start another.