turn out the lights.

turn out the lights.

inside my house— 

my mom's house.

the door is locked, 

and this tree is in the way.

I can't see the street,

the connecting street,

as well as I had 

standing on the deck. 

the streetlamp still looks 

imprisoned, 

and the birds are chirping

upstairs.

mom's asleep

or maybe she listened, 

maybe still is,

I don't know

—wow—

in a moment of crisis

I stepped out 

and looked down 

                            on my childhood,

now reframed, 

now closer to the road—

closer to danger. 

and I've identified 

a route of demise, 

but I'm still 

                        here. 

when a thought crosses, 

it's real, you know,

I step back, 

I take a picture—

I sort of look dead

                                    in a way,

can't see my eyes, 

like I'm 

        wearing glasses 

                              too low on my face.

this is the weird part

—your voice changes 

with phlegm in your throat, 

and you step back again.

now you’re elongated— 

see more of the orange shirt, 

I wore to church, 

an upside down cross. 

now even more elongated, 

like that streetlamp, 

and I wonder 

                          if it ever moves. 

—alright— 

come back here.

now I'm as short as my wife,

with the fence at my waist, 

like I'm standing on

                                       the edge of it—

if there were a couch 

I'd fall right now. 

just fall off of it, 

and then realize you're not safe 

                                                  ever— 

it's the thing.

I've never done this, 

                              though.

and that's the weird part. 

you confront your 

                          distorted self

fall further into 

and realize you 

                     just look tired, 

you know—

and you wonder 

what would happen if 

                    he

     said something to me.

ba—250315