15 february

there's only so much i can turn on and afterward the lights go dark -- slip away into the elsewhere, turn a corner to be gone. can't accept these invitations -- all the pieces complicated by the lines that go between, sight unseen and round about: nighttime rises, bringing doubts and templates for some far-off dream to crash the scene that never got to live in the house that jack built. can i learn to make the choice and turn the page to other words -- will the wind bring something wild or will the earth come up to meet?