
A standard piece of paper can be folded only seven times.
The seventh fold marks the city limits of the physical
universe where the paper becomes thicker than it is wide,
the transition of doublewides to garage-apartments,
warty mixed-use zoning where you end up
origami’d into the dry cleaners & Po Boys
tires-and-rims after folding yourself into a bifold
wallet trashbags & a trunk bungeed over the kids’ toys
you don’t have room for but you can’t bear to dumpster.
Provided the paper is thin enough, though,
nothing stops you from folding.
It depends only on how thin you can go, or another way
to say the same thing: how far you are prepared to spread it.
Nothing stops you from going 1-ply, translucent in the stall
of the Big Lots bathroom where you steal the cheapest toilet paper
in the known universe, hand over hand in a graceful dance, unrolled
& folded & folded
& folded.
