Paper Planes Poem Kenneth Wee __full__: My

I keep a small fleet folded in the drawer of my desk: sharp noses, inked wings, tiny creases like fingerprints. They are impatient things—made of receipts, old notebooks, ticket stubs that once meant somewhere, pages torn from lists. Each one remembers a different sky.

Keep some in your pocket, the ones with the dog-eared noses. If you fold one tonight, make the final crease with care—press like a secret. Aim not for distance but for the small, improbable landings: a windowsill, a neighbor's palm, a bench by the river. Send it with a single, clear thought—hello, I exist—and let the wind decide which stories it will carry forward. my paper planes poem kenneth wee

On rainy nights I press them to the radiator so the glue remembers its job, then practice longer throws in the living room, avoiding the lamp. There are designs for speed and for grace, folds learned by repetition: valleys folded like lungs, wings sharpened like questions. I measure success not by distance but by the route—who sees them glide, which windows tilt open, which curtains twitch. I keep a small fleet folded in the

Sometimes I imagine the planes as older selves—boys, kitchens, trains— unfolding into new air. Sometimes they are apologies that lighten as they go, or declarations given wings so they won’t be trapped inside my chest. They know by instinct how to find cracks: gutters, open windows, the hollow between two roofs. They are small boats on wind, paper sailors with fragile courage. Keep some in your pocket, the ones with the dog-eared noses