If I could thread
a needle and begin to stitch
together the smallest I could find—

an eyelash, a fingerprint—
it would be like writing a letter:

I don’t know how to close
a door, but I am sending
the sound of it latching.

The photo that caught you
collective, the years of

history, small but heavy.

If I could remove the stone before the door:

dovecote
columbarium
hotel room—

Would we enter
and stay small forever.

In the theory of everything,
there are strings
and the vibrations
of strings.

If I‘m not small
enough, we can start thinking
of what to remove.

Maybe then we can fold
these words upon themselves?

A pigeon hole
an apiary
a catacomb:

this pinprick.

A vibrating tendon—mine,
you pluck it. String of a cello bass.

Snip it, and
I would no longer be afraid;
even when I should be.