The folds in her hands, church pamphlets, every figment
set in the old balcony’s smell, her father’s smell when he
sleeps too long in the back bedroom, back to the opening
which begins stairs, those folds of wood grinding time down
to nonexistence, pointed structure gone from wind, dirty
bed sheets folded like prayers.
-refers from the word “folds” in Laura McCullough’s poem Longing