L E S L I E L E E D S P R I Z E
HEIDI HOWLAND
FOR DANIEL
i.
It’s cold today.
The kind of cold that lurks
in stone church basements,
at the bottom of black lakes
and between the lines
of that last little note
you wrote and I saved,
crumpled up and then unfolded
and pressed between pages
of the Bible
I never read but stare at
because it stares at me
all white and pious.
ii.
That image of your note
closed and folded
and folded
like a practiced oragami-maker
building the world from scraps
of paper in seven days flat
as long as the corners are
sharp and crisp.
