His name is the first thing he carries
but like his first piece of clothing
it is not a burden.
His story begins when a form is filled.
The ink of his name sinks into the paper
and dries as he sinks into
his first exhausted sleep.
A form’s protective boxes are a kindness
to one so helpless: incubators.
But as a man, boxes make him long to stretch out
and so he begins putting asterisks in form fields
and filling the blank reverse side with his subtler thoughts.
At first pure cheek, the practise becomes essential.
Attached pages fatten into manuscripts,
stapled together, placed in other boxes.
The courier stops asking questions.
He still insists that, like clothing,
these are not burdens but necessities—
until he drops a stack of paper on his foot
the weight of it making the floor creak.
He kicks at it blindly
and if by this point he’s lucky enough
to be living somewhere with a balcony and nice weather,
a couple of pages scatter across the threshold,
glide under the railing
and become irretrievable.
Since all can no longer be in perfect order,
it seems only just that it at least be in perfect chaos.
He lifts the stack of manuscripts and carbon copies
and heaves it in a swinging motion
onto the afternoon breeze,
whose nimble fingers greedily unravel it.
The flurry sinks three, maybe five storeys,
before rising on a fresh gust.
The neighbours sipping coffee on their own balconies
look unsurprised.
The shoppers below look up in wonder.
The children fold the paper into aeroplanes.